


The Moonshine Trail

by AdorkableSmile



Category: Avengers (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Multi, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorkableSmile/pseuds/AdorkableSmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Prohibition-era Avengers AU. When NYPD Chief Barnes is murdered, his protegé Steven Rogers finds himself in charge and resolves to find his killer. Along the way he must choose his friends carefully; around every corner an enemy is waiting for him. Only his wits and his luck can keep him alive as he gets the attention of every gang vying for the lucrative black-market liquor trade, as he leaves a trail of revenge and destruction in his search for the truth of Bucky's murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire and Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the delay on the next chapter; in case you can't tell it's all got a bit complicated, and with uni and things I've been struggling to find the time to write which is making it worse. But I'll have the next few chapters written at least by the end of January, and I'll be able to start posting again from February.

**Chapter 1: Fire and Alcohol**

**January 1921**

It was supposed to be a routine bust.

Bucky cursed as the door splintered against Steve's foot. The big blond man ran into the room; there was a gasp, and a crack, and the shopkeeper was thrown heavily onto the pavement.

'Damn it, Steve!' Bucky hissed. 'This is a covert mission! Quick and quiet!'

'They'll be having too much fun to hear us up here,' Steve argued as he cuffed the shopkeeper. 'Come on! I think I've found the stairs down!'

Bucky walked into the shop, where Steve began fiddling with a hidden lever under the counter. It was a dusty antiques shop, filled with exotic paraphernalia, and helmets and medals taken as souvenirs from the recent war. There was a click as a door unlocked, and slid partway open, behind the counter. Police Chief James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes wound his way through the trinkets. He took his place next to the door, pushing it open silently; there was no sound down below. He stopped Steve in his tracks with one hand as he tried to push past.

'Listen, deputy,' he whispered. 'We're not supposed to be here. You run down there and raise Hell, we get noticed. Quick and quiet. This mission is off the books, got it?' Steve's brow knotted and he frowned as he nodded warily.

'Good. Then let's go.'

They walked down in silence, the noise of revelry and chatter filling the staircase; energetic jazz cut through the noise and flowed with the amber light spilling from the room below. The smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke rankled in Bucky's nose – no more than a few weeks since those scents had graced his office, he tried to push that thought away – and the two of them stepped into the room and were instantly lost in the noise.

A speakeasy like this was a good place to get recognised, Bucky reflected. He walked over to the bar and stood awhile, ordering a drink when the bartender came around. The moonshine in this place was pretty good, they had some decent runners coming and going here. Of course, none of them had held a candle to him – he'd taken half of them down in the first year. Now they were getting cautious, and his promotion had taken him off the streets and out of their way. His drink arrived just before a man in a suit leaned up against the bar next to him. Neither man looked at each other.

'You shouldn't be here.' Bucky took a sip of his drink – gin on the rocks – and nodded a greeting.

'Neither should you, Stark,' he noted. 'Big oil baron in the pocket of the mob, I know you better than you think.'

'I also control half the city's papers,' Stark replied smoothly. 'There's no way out for you if I spin this against you; how would a photo of you in a speakeasy like this play with the public?'

'I can get warrants to search your apartment in six minutes once I reach a payphone, Tony. Would your papers run the story of a police bust hauling bootleg liquor and weapons – the same weapons Torrio and his flunkies are using in bank heists, warehouse raids, protection rackets, don't interrupt Stark – would your papers run the story of the year? Because you'd either have to step down, or you'd have to reveal your whole dirty history to the people of New York. You see how that plays out, Stark?'

Stark closed his mouth, which had been hanging open in anticipation of a cutting reply for quite some time. They both stared out over the room silently. Suddenly, Tony leaned in.

'Your new boy looks nice,' he whispered. 'I'd like a piece of him myself one day.'

'He'd tear you in two,' Bucky replied with a smirk. To his credit, he didn't even blush.

'I like 'em like that.' With that parting remark, Stark made his way around the room, threading between tables and pausing to chat with the patrons. Bucky followed his path around the room, turning away as he embraced his secretary. They were sat next to a sultry redhead, who smiled across the room at him; he finished his drink and turned to look for Steve.

There was a cry from the corner of the room. Bucky whirled, homing in on the sound.

Steve was standing at the epicentre of a rapidly expanding circle of shocked patrons; in the air in front of him, suspended by his shoulder clasped in Steve's massive shovel-palm, was one of the speakeasy's customers, one who Bucky recognised.

The crowd was thick, and pressing back against the fury in Steve's eyes, but Bucky forced his was to the front with frantic haste. His arm found Steve and he dragged himself through to the centre of the circle.

'Look, Buck!' Steve cried triumphantly. 'Look who I've found – and in a speakeasy no less!'

Bucky looked into the miserable but proud face which glared back at him.

'Barton,' he said with surprise. 'Didn't expect to see you here.'

'I was undercover, you Wurp!' Detective Barton spat. 'Now get your bimbo friend offa me, before I really start something!'

'Youse guys're cops?' Bucky turned. A few of the bar's patrons seemed menacingly close now, they loomed over the trio.

'Stevey?' Bucky warned. 'Time at the bar. I think we gotta-'

'I hear ya, Buck,' Steve replied. There was a table between him and the staircase; in a single fluid movement, Barton was tucked under his arm and he was vaulting the table as Bucky followed. He shoved against his partner's back, forcing him faster up the steps as he kicked back at the mob, releasing his anger on them rather than the big man ahead of him. Someone said something about a back entrance down the stairwell and the press of bodies lessened a little, and then he was dragged sideways and back into the main shop. Steve kicked out at the closest attackers, who retreated down the stairs as he stepped over to a large grandfather clock; Bucky grinned.

'That'll do it,' he said. They got behind it and, grunting, the two of them hauled it into position in the narrow doorway. There were shouts and screams as Bucky slid the door shut with a click. He stared at his friends, relief finally allowing him to rest and collapse. He supported himself on the counter, locking his arms and trying to take some weight off his feet. Steve was leaning against the secret door, it bulged inwards against his mass. Barton sat in the corner, sweating and trying to get his breath back.

'Exactly what were you doing there, Barton?' Bucky asked. 'I only went in to talk to Stark, see what he knew.'

'Stark doesn't know anything,' Barton replied breathlessly. 'He sells the mob his technology, and his alcohol, but he doesn't pry into their business. Loudmouth talks enough for everyone else in the room, I could hear him discussing it a mile away.'

'Who else was there?' Bucky pressed. 'What's going on, where's the next hit?' Barton shook his head. Wrong bar for that, wrong crowd.

'You want Lazy Jim's. The barber shop on 34th and Madison; that's where Torrio's flunkies drink. But they vet everyone who goes in there, there's a waiting list as long as your arm. You need another way, Chief.'

Bucky thought for a moment. Then, he walked around the counter and towards the door.

'I need to go and ask around,' he said. 'You two, get back to the station; we've been out too long already, you guys are my alibi. Make something up, make it plausible; I'll be back tomorrow with a way in to Lazy Jim's.'

'How?'

Bucky turned to Steve; he hadn't expected questions. He shrugged.

'I'll think of something,' he said, but Steve strode forward.

'Not good enough,' he said. 'How? What are you gonna do? Did we really come here just to talk to Stark, or did you want to get information from a drunk and disgraced detective? What's going on here, chief? I need answers.' There was a tinge of fear in Steve's eyes; Bucky had to look away.

'I'll be back tomorrow,' he said. 'Once we've got Torrio, then I can talk. Until then, that's gonna have to be good enough.' He strode out of the antiques shop and opened his car door.

The night exploded.

Steve's ears rang and the pressure wave bowled him backwards; glass shattered, wood burned, the front of the shop collapsed entirely. Splinters and fire rained down, the screams of the night intertwined with the rending of molten metal.

Where Bucky's car had been – where Bucky had been – there was nothing more than a burning wreck.

-

**July 1921**

 

Commissioner van Dyne stared at Steve coolly, her fingers steepled in front of her. She glanced down at the report once more.

'Banner says you're not even trying to move past it,' she noted. Steve glared at her from under his brow. He was unshaven, his hair unkempt, and he reeked of alcohol. She sighed and tried again.

'Dwelling on his death isn't going to bring him back, Rogers. Neither is going from bar to bar drinking illegally.' She leaned in and gazed pleadingly into his eyes.

'We need you back,' she said. 'I know you and Chief Barnes were close, but you have to put it behind you; we've got our best men on it.' Steve stood, unmoving, head bowed, and van Dyne threw up her hands in disbelief, sitting back with a sigh.

'Janet.'

It was barely more than a whisper, but she leaned forward all the same. Steve raised his head; his eyes were energetic and bright, and his body felt like a wall of calm against a storm raging inside.

'If I come back,' he said, 'I head up the prohibition division. I'm taking out these shine runners who blew up Buck's car.'

'Steve, we can't let you do-'

'I'm not investigating his murder,' Steve insisted. 'I won't concern myself with that side in a professional capacity, I promise you that. But I take out these bootleggers, and I choose my own team to do it. Those are my terms. Deal?' He held out a hand. Janet hesitated; something didn't ring right with what Rogers had said. But she sighed and relented, and shook his hand.

'Deal, damn it,' she muttered. 'But you'd better get me results!'

Steve left the office clouded by thoughts. Strategy raced through his head, he already had a list of people he wanted on his team, he would move fast. In just a few months he could take out Torrio, and then he'd have free reign to track down Bucky's killer.

The image of the burning car filled his mind and he stopped a moment. That was his price for rushing in. He took a deep breath.  _ Okay Steve; let's take this a step at a time. _

A young recruit was waiting for him through the next set of doors, and politely informed him that a Mr Stark was waiting for him in his now-office. Steve approached the door, and stopped a moment outside it. This had been Bucky's office – would it still have his same style? He would have the same carpet, the same faded wallpaper, the same oversized desk; but would he go in to see Bucky's newspaper clippings all over the back wall? The heroic deeds of several years previous? Would the trail of thread connecting criminal to criminal still be there? The ledger, where Steve knew he'd kept a record of every underworld contact he'd made; would that sit on his desk untouched? He opened the door, not knowing which would be worse: to see the room, a ghastly museum to the memory of his friend; or to walk in and see the walls bare, the holes made by so many tacks waiting to be plastered over.

What he saw instead was Tony's trim figure leaning against the bare desk. He looked up as Steve entered.

'Afternoon, chief,' Tony greeted. 'They managed to clear out the office pretty quick. Still it took weeks to get rid of old Barnes' whisky smell. They got it, though; at least until I came in.' Suddenly Steve was looming over him, his eyes dark.

'This isn't the time, Stark,' he said, an edge to his voice. Stark extricated himself from his position between the big man and his desk, taking a flask from his jacket.

'You got that right,' he agreed. 'The time woulda been six months ago, when I first called you at home. Whiskey?'

'No thanks,' Steve said.

'Really? You, a prohibitionist? In all my years, I-'

'The Hell I am!' Steve snapped, snatching the flask from Tony's hand. 'But in a police station? We're the law, Tony; I might not like it, but I gotta enforce it.' Despite his own words, he took a swig.

'Atta boy,' Tony said. 'Now, to business. You're running the moonshine squad, right? Well I've got some questions I need you to answer.'

'You mean like, where's the body?' Steve asked, handing back the flask. 'Yeah, I read your papers,' he added, seeing the look on Tony's face. 'You were the only one to pick up on it, too. Who's your man?'

'That would be me,' Tony replied haughtily. 'See, the good thing about being in the pocket of the mob? It's easy to get the cops in your pocket too. I greased the palm of a forensic officer and waited until the scene had cooled before looking into it. I discovered something very interesting.

'First, the body. It was gone, completely. Even in an explosion like that, there'd be some bits left. You can blow someone to bits but those bits have to go somewhere; even when they're burned up like that there's some bits that aren't burned up so easily. Legs, arms, the sort of thing you usually find left over. But Officer Barnes? Nothing. They only had a few seconds, they must've been waiting. In all the chaos, they took the body and were gone.'

'Why?' Steve asked.

'Couldn't say,' Tony replied. 'Second, the mob. See, they've been asking me for some very interesting items as of late; here's the list.' He handed Steve a list of mechanical parts: ratchets, springs, tubing, a hinge or two, mostly very small parts.

'What are they making?' Steve pored over the list in confusion.

'Again, no idea. But that does bring me onto my third point: I work on small things which work on a big scale. They have another guy in New York, my mob contact let slip about him once or twice, a guy they go to who makes the big things for them. The bomb that blew up your pal? I found this at the scene.' From inside his jacket came a package; he set it on the desk and unwrapped it. Steve gasped.

'This is-'

'I know,' Tony replied. Together, they stared at the metal plate on the table, stamped with the Stark Industries logo.

'It's a bomb part,' Tony admitted immediately. He waited for Steve to round on him.

'What's the catch?' the big man asked instead. 'Look, you wouldn't be explaining this to me if you were guilty; what happened?' Tony blinked, but composed himself and explained.

'I clearly need to fire my accountants,' he said, 'because someone's been stealing parts from my weapons production lines on the sly. This part was from a bomb I was mass-producing, but the bomb that exploded at the antiques shop was based on a prototype of mine I'd allowed the mob to see; they were interested in buying.'

'Tell me about it.'

'It was a firebomb,' Tony explained. 'Useful when you wanted to burn down a building and make it look like an accident. But they didn't pay enough attention, obviously: where my bomb was designed to be fragile, to burn away easily, they made this out of regular parts, stuff designed to withstand a huge blast rather than a relatively slower burn.'

Steve stood and considered this information for a while. Finally, he spoke.

'All this,' he said, 'doesn't explain why you're telling me. What, did you grow tired of the mob?'

'You could say that,' Tony said. 'I've got my fingers in enough pies that their money is superfluous. Pocket change, nothing more.' Steve started as he pulled a wad of cash from his jacket and flung it onto the desk carelessly.

'See that?' he said. 'That was last month's bribe. That's it. Nothing.' Steve stared at it like it was a smoking gun.

'What's it doing on my desk?' he asked, his eyes narrowing. Tony smiled and stared out of the dingy window.

'Well see, Chief,' he said, 'I'd like you to work with me for a while. I'm still in deep with the mob, and my contact knows a thing or two about explosives. Not enough to take out your friend in that way,' he added hastily, glancing at Steve's face, 'but more than he should. I want to find out where he's getting his information.'

'And when you do,' Steve said. He pulled on a pair of driving gloves, the sentence hanging in the air like a bad smell. Tony's nose rankled at it.

'I think you get the idea,' he said. 'So it's a deal?' Steve had picked up the cash and was staring at it. Finally, he walked over to Stark, still holding it in his hand. He tore the paper strip from it and riffled it beneath his thumb, counting it silently.

Finally, he slid the window up with one hand and, with the other, tossed the bundle into the wind.

'I won't take bribes, Stark,' he said harshly. 'But you're welcome to join my squad. We've got a coupla openings.'

'A couple?' Stark asked, strolling towards the door. 'Let me see: it's you, and that's it. Am I correct?' He opened the door and stepped out, but something stopped him. He could  _ feel _ Steve's grin at his back.

He turned, his face deadpan.

'No,' Steve replied. 'It's me and you. Welcome to the force. Now, tell me about this contact of yours.' Tony sighed and closed the door. He sat down in the luxurious chair behind the desk.

'He runs the garages in Brooklyn,' he explained. 'They're fronts, he uses them to outfit the moonshine cars and trick 'em out.' Steve leaned into the desk.

'Give me a name, Stark,' he said. Tony squirmed, but he was outmatched. He could feel a familiar sensation rising, that well-known tingle up his back as the adrenaline rose: the thrill of the chase. He could see it in Steve's eyes too.

'His name,' he admitted finally, 'is Obadiah Stane.'

-

**December 1919**

Tony Stark hadn't fought in the First World War. He hadn't been a conscientious objector, not exactly anyway. But he was deemed too important a figure to risk his life in such a way – by 1919 the Stark family had gained control of a large portion of America's oil reserves and owned factories which produced not only weapons, but vehicles, clothing, and some of America's processed food, and much of the New York press was his too.

It was the sheer scope of his business which led him into the path of Obadiah Stane.

'Mr Stark! Such a pleasure to meet you!' Tony took Stane's hand and shook it, taking his seat in his office as Stane stood and began his proposal.

'I understand you hail from Italy originally,' he said. 'My business partners have family there, the name of Stark is spoken with something akin to reverence in many of the smaller villages. Even in Europe your innovations are having an impact.'

Stark raised an eyebrow.  _ You sure know how to butter a guy up, pal, _ he thought. But he waved a hand dismissively.

'I can't take all the credit,' he said airily. 'I help others when I see promise with their ideas. I'm working with a man named Birdseye at the moment, claims he can revolutionise the food industry. His ideas are sound, theoretically; he's got a good mind.'

'I'm sure he does, Mr Stark,' Stane said silkily. 'The topic of “minds” is, in fact, why we've come here today. You see, I represent a body of individuals who are of one mind, and that mind is to share in your vision.' Stark sat forward at this, raised a questioning finger.

'You don't know my vision,' he noted casually. 'Are you suggesting to tell me what I think?' Stane held his hands in front of himself in a gesture of surrender.

'Mr Stark, Tony!' he chuckled. 'You own newspapers, armament factories, you produce half of the processed foods New York eats every day, you've got this city in your grip. The next logical step for you to take would be to run for office.'

'You mean mayor?' Tony asked, his eyes flashing. Mayor! 'Are you suggesting that your... visionaries are planning on backing a campaign to make me mayor of New York?' There was a hint of suspicion in his voice.

'You are a man of science, Tony Stark,' Stane said. 'One only has to look around to see it! Surely you are a man of logic also?'

'But you forget I am an Italian,' Stark said slyly. 'My heart rules me as much as my mind. Mr Stane, if you do business solely on a logical basis your business will fail. Are you here to buy weapons? Because if you are, I would appreciate a little candidness.' Stane's ever-present smile froze for a moment, and he composed himself and began in earnest, completely serious this time.

'Mr Stark, we would appreciate a partnership with you,' he said. 'I represent a man named Johnny Torrio; he is looking to set up trade through this area and others in America. I am his liaison in New York.' Stark steepled his fingers and stared over them at Stane.

'What sort of trade?' he asked. 'Where's your Torrio based?'

'He is in Chicago,' Stane said, and Tony snorted.

'Chicago? He hardly needs a liaison, he could send any flunkey up here!' Stane smiled warmly.

'His enterprises require a more... personal touch,' he explained. 'As such, he sends those he trusts to the outer reaches of his industry empire.'

_ Industry Empire?  _ This piqued Tony's interest. He smiled back at Stane.

'This is the first I've heard of Torrio,' he said. 'What area is he in? Weapons? Food?'

'Alcohol,' Stane answered. 'He owns multiple breweries throughout the country.' Tony turned away immediately.

'Not interested,' he said. 'The way things are going, congress will outlaw alcohol sales entirely in just a few months, at the outside. We're looking at prohibition, Mr Stane; I suggest you tell your boss that.' Stane cleared his throat meaningfully.

'As a matter of fact, Mr Stark,' he said, 'that's exactly why Mr Torrio is setting up his breweries now. We've converted some factory space here in New York and we're ready to start production: all we need is a figurehead to convince the people there's no brewery in New York.' Tony grinned.

'So you want to use my papers?' he asked. 'I publicise the opening of a new factory – presumably, staffed by Torrio's own employees – and you turn the entirety of New York into a swamp of alcohol when everyone insists it's a dry gulch? I like the sound of that.' Stane's smile grew, and he nodded.

'We will pay you a monthly dividend,' he said. 'You get the money, you continue to assure your friends in high places that prohibition is working and that no alcohol will be seen to be sold in the city, and we make money selling alcohol underground.'

'And how many people do you think you'll attract with your alcohol?' Stark asked. 'I need to know this is a serviceable business venture.'

'It has been proven time and again,' Stane said. 'Illicit activities by their nature attract a certain type of person, and that type of person is usually very powerful. We are not only suggesting you keep away your senator friends; we would hope you send those who want to sample our... unique products.'

Tony thought about it for a moment.

'My stake grows with every person desiring a drink I send your way,' he said. 'I know the owners of several small businesses; they refuse to shut up shop on good ground. Maybe we can convince them to install an illicit bar in their basements.'

'You think like a true entrepreneur, Mr Stark,' Stane commended him. 'Yes, that sounds like a very good idea. I know some people who would do that job quite well.' He held out his hand. Stark stood and shook it.

'Obadiah, my friend,' he said, 'you have just made a very shrewd business decision.'

'You too, Tony,' he said. 'Truly you have an eye for the lucrative investments!'

They drank to their partnership, each one smiling because they knew they were holding all the cards in this deal.

-

**July 1921**

'So you thought this Stane guy was handing you a wad of extra cash for nothing?' Steve asked.

'He was!' Tony retorted. 'All I had to do was protect my investment the way I always did. And I got a share of the profits from the alcohol sales – all tax free, they could sell it at the same old price, only they didn't have to give any of it to the government.'

'What happened?'

'Things started changing,' Tony said. 'Torrio got famous. Well, infamous. Him and Capone, they're both in on this. And now I'm in deep – I cut ties, they sell the story to the half of New York's papers I don't control. Tony Stark secretly supplying city with alcohol! How would that look, eh?'

'That sounds pretty bad,' Steve said quietly. 'But there has to be more to it.'

'There's a little more,' Stark said. 'They set up some guys in my factory. I didn't realise at first – Pepper deals with the hiring and firing now, especially since I'm more involved in the papers. She told me about it a few weeks ago: guys with mob contacts and criminal records slipping through the cracks, their references just mob guys pretending to be employers. She had to go deep, hire a P.I to look into it. Maybe a tenth of my force in the weapons factories are mob guys. And I can't fire them – Obadiah would realise something was up and he'd come back with the same guys to take my kneecaps.'

'He's been making threats?' Steve asked. Tony nodded.

'I've got him running scared somehow,' he said. 'I think he suspects. That I know about the thefts, I mean. The last coupla times I've seen him, he's been barely holding it together. But then, I've been going behind his back too; I've taken a few scores against him.'

'How?' Tony averted his eyes from Steve's.

'Barnes,' he admitted. Steve stood up.

'What?' he asked, stepping closer. 'Tell me what you mean, Stark.'

'I clued him in on some of the bars,' Tony said. 'He'd go in with a squad, knock the place over and take out some of the mob guys. Stane was getting frantic about it a month before the bomb, I'd done one too many in too short a time and he was nervous.'

'So you're the reason he was killed?' Steve snapped. Tony shied away.

'No!' he cried. 'Maybe! A bit? It's complicated with them, Barnes made an enemy of Stane when he took down half his drivers. He's been running contraband for years, the alcohol's the only thing that changed. More money; now Stane has some power. He has grand designs, ideas for New York.  _ Plans _ . And Barnes was always stepping on his heels when it came to that, slowing him down. But he knew the chief pretty well anyway. A lot of Barnes' friends went into the mob, became drivers or enforcers. He knew a lot of people in the business, I was the farthest out. As far as I knew.'

'Yeah,' Steve said, his face wreathed in shadows as the sun slipped low. 'I bet you're real far out from this.'

'No,' Tony snarled, contempt etched on his face, 'no, compared to you I'm the lowest of the low. Ain't that right, Saint Steve? Look, I've told you all I know. But think about it: Barnes was top dog in the force, but his hands were red with the number mobsters he was in with. And he was a good driver, one of the fastest; do you really think he gave all that up so easily?'

'I hear you,' Steve said darkly. 'And I don't like it.'

'But you've thought about it, haven't you?' Tony said. 'What if he wasn't the good man you always thought he was? What, your childhood friend really a criminal mastermind? I could see it; it would explain his messy end! Maybe they took the body so they could kill him all over again!'

'Maybe,' Steve said. There was a tremor in his voice.

'I think we're done here,' he said finally. Tony stared at him for a moment. Steve was standing in the middle of the room, his eyes glazed over and his body hanging as though suspended by the head; his legs were set and his arms hung by his sides, everything slumped. For a moment, Tony's expression softened and he opened his mouth to say something. But then his ego took over and he scowled; he opened the door again and left, pulling it closed hard behind him. Maybe it'd jam and he'd lock the bastard in there.

He got to the street, his head a fug of anger and sadness. Looking around, he gave a wave – after a moment a sleek black automobile crawled to the kerb, and a tall, thin man stepped out and opened the back door.

'Thanks Jarvis,' Tony said, practically falling into the seat before righting himself and relaxing, head back. As Jarvis drove away, he stared up at the roof of the car and reached for his flask. It rattled thinly as he took it out; nearly empty.

_ That's funny _ , he thought.  _ I swear I only had one sip. _

-

 

 


	2. Real Russian Vodka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets to work finding recruits for his prohibitionist division. The only problem: he doesn't know who he can trust. So where better to start than with a man he can trust like no other? Meanwhile, Tony has plans to build his own empire, and maybe get a slice of the black market, and we get a brief glimpse into the Russian alcohol trade.

**August 1921**

New York was a city building up, but there were still enough gaps that the sunlight could filter down and throw a ray of light onto the dust which floated through Sam Wilson's basement bar. He'd been very open about his speakeasy, even during prohibition; in a city where the police were as likely as the citizens to flaunt the law, he felt it didn't need to be kept quite so secret.

'I didn't expect you to be breaking the law, Sam.'

He started, his eyes turned to the doorway. A silhouette was all he could make out, a veritable wall of a man blocking the doorway. It was only when he stepped in, and out of the bright light of outside, that Wilson recognised the grinning Steve Rogers. He smiled broadly and walked around his bar to clasp Steve in a tight hug, which he returned.

'It's been forever, man!' That was how the conversation began when they were settled, a vodka on the rocks for each of them. The bar wasn't open yet; Sam kept it a police-only bar, so that he could keep up with old friends, but that meant late openings and later closings, often the early hours of the morning.

Steve smiled and took a sip of his drink.

'I didn't think you were one to take a drink during prohibition,' Sam joked, grinning wide and raising his glass in silent toast to the man. Steve nodded his appreciation, but his smile was a lot sadder.

'Yeah, well what if I'm drinking to someone's memory?' Sam's smile disappeared and he became solemn.

'I heard about that, man,' he said. 'I'm sorry.' He laid a hand on Steve's shoulder. 'You know,' he added, 'things get tough, you can always find friends in here.' Steve looked up at him then.

'That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Sam,' he said. 'I'm back on the force, getting a squad together to take down the moonshine runners who operate in New York. And I'm hoping the guy who killed Bucky gets in the way at some point.' Sam took a step back.

'No way man,' he warned. 'That's the start of a slippery slope. If you're going that way, I can't follow. I got out for a reason.'

'You never did tell me that reason,' Steve said. 'You feeling in a sharing mood?' Sam looked sideways at Steve, and shrugged.

'It was my partner, Riley,' he said. 'He was killed in the line of duty. You ever feel like the public's ungrateful for the job you're doing? Well, they sent us to this neighbourhood and we knew it wasn't gonna end well from the beginning, they had all these confederate flags hangin' up and I could see the white hoods from the car. But we go to the house where a disturbance was reported, and Riley knocks on the door. The “disturbance” spilled out into the yard, the neighbours got involved, and one of them got the idea that Riley started it all -' Sam mimicked a gun with his fingers and fired. He swirled his vodka and took a gulp.

'That was the end of Riley, and the end of my job,' he finished. 'I couldn't cut it after that, everywhere I looked I saw the guy with the gun pointed at Riley's head. Everyone was guilty as far as I was concerned.' Steve had been staring at Sam throughout the story. Now he looked down at his vodka and took a sip.

'What would it take,' he asked, 'for you to change your mind?' Sam regarded him coolly. This was how the game was played.

'Well now,' he said nonchalantly. 'I hear talk from some of the guys, the Russians are muscling in on Torrio's business, the guy can't pay them off anymore. I got the proof, too, that's more than they got.'

'Oh yeah?' Steve asked. 'What proof?' Sam grinned.

'You're drinking it,' he said. Steve looked down at his glass in shock.

'This is really the Russian's stuff?' he asked. Sam nodded.

'They bring it in through a property guy in Manhattan, owns a coupla docks down there. At least, so the boys say.'

'Which boys?' Sam shook his head.

'Not happening, pal,' he said. 'Point one, most of my customers are bent cops. Point two, I know them all personally, and they're not out to hurt anyone. They just wanna make their own lives a little easier.'

'Hopefully not at the expense of someone else's,' Steve cautioned. 'Look, will you join me or not? You're in the know, you've got the contacts – and since Bucky's... well... contacts are something we're lacking.' Sam stood and stared down Steve for a while, considering the offer.

'Sorry,' he said eventually. 'I've got too much to do with this place to consider shutting up shop for a while.' Steve nodded and turned towards the door; Sam waved goodbye to him and went back to cleaning glasses. Steve paused in the doorway and turned back hopefully.

'What if I told you there was a woman involved?' he asked. Sam turned back to him, letting the cleaning cloth drop into the glass.

'Depends who the woman is,' he said with a wry smile.

**-**

**July 1921**

The phone rang shortly after Tony had left. Steve answered it quickly.

'Steven Rogers, NYPD,' he rattled off wearily. The husky, woman's voice on the other end of the line startled him.

'Captain Rogers,' she said. 'I need to speak with you urgently. How soon can you get to the docks in Hell's Kitchen?'

'You want  _ me _ to head to Hell's Kitchen?' Steve asked suspiciously.

'I know it's a lot to ask,' the woman said. 'But I may be in a lot of trouble here, and I'd rather be under police protection than in jail for murder.' Murder! Steve suppressed a gasp; had she already killed someone? Was her life in danger?

'I'll go,' he said. 'But you meet me alone, in a well-lit area.'

'I can agree to the first part,' she replied. 'Not the second. Come alone, I'll meet you at the end of West 49 th Street. You need to see what's going on here.' She hung up.

Clint was working late that night so he agreed to drive Steve to the meeting place. They arrived in twenty minutes, the night so quiet that barely any cars were out. Steve gave instructions to Clint, then walked to the pool of light beneath a streetlight at the edge of the docks. There, the warm night air close around him, he waited.

'I told you,' the voice said behind him, 'I can't do well-lit. I have a Colt M1911 in my hand; you are going to walk into the dock, take the first left in between the stacks and then head to the right, keeping in the shadows, until you reach the end of the dock. There will be a boat; I will see you there. Go on my mark.' There was a pause, during which Steve dared not breathe. Then, the voice said 'mark' and he was off, striding into the dockyard.

The first left was a narrow path which led into a slightly-less-narrow path between rows of crates swaddled in netting; Steve followed it down, aware of the sounds of movement and raised voices all around him. It was almost pitch black in the shadow, and twice Steve had to squeeze himself up until he could barely breathe to let people past without them spotting him. Many were drunk, judging by the smell coming from them and their clothes; Steve held his breath as they passed. Soon the boat was in sight, across about fifty feet of open space where there were no crates. It was a splendid yacht, bright white in the darkness and very big. The area in between was relatively dark, in the shadow of the boat, but Steve hesitated nonetheless.

And then he saw her, crossing the yard. She wore a short black dress and black heels, making her almost impossible to see save for her light skin and brilliant red hair. Steve pursed his lips, steeled himself and walked hurriedly out into the open.

It was a miracle nobody spotted him, he felt sure he'd be seen. But he made it aboard the yacht and was just behind the woman when she opened the door to the cabin.

'Inside, now!' he hissed, a hand on her back. She gasped, but the door was closed before she could protest.

Inside the boat, she whirled on Steve, indignant.

'Is this how you treat all your lady friends?' she sniffed. 'I don't think much of it, Chief.'

'How does everyone know about that?' Steve wondered aloud. He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. 'You said you needed to talk urgently.' The woman turned to the cabinet in the little parlour and took two glasses from it.

'Would you like a drink?' she asked, a smile playing about her lips. Steve stepped closer clumsily, but shook his head.

'I think I've had enough today,' he said. 'Besides, I'm only here for business.' She chuckled at this.

'My dear Mr Rogers,' she said, 'the business  _ is _ drinking!' She opened up the cabinet again, only this time she pressed a certain panel a certain way, and inside it was lined with drinks. Alcohol of every type stood on the shelves, neat little rows of rank and file. She took a bottle down.

'Whisky from Canada,' she explained. 'Tequila from Mexico, Vodka from Russia and Rum from the warehouses around here. This is where the business is booming. Prohibition has made many people in this area rich, and they are not going to be happy with me or you.'

'Why not?' Steve asked. 'What's going on?' The woman walked past him, taking a seat in a lowered lounge area and reclining on the sofa. She took a cube of ice from a bucket, dropping it into her glass and pouring vodka over it.

'Do you like the boat?' she asked, gesturing with a lazy hand. 'My father bought it for me, it was a wedding gift. My husband and I, once Owney Madden gets outta prison, we're going sailing around the world. Of course,' she added with a predatory smile, 'he'll only make it halfway or so, I plan on that.'

'Are you... confessing to a murder?' Steve asked. The smile disappeared.

'Do women distract you so much, Mr Rogers?' she asked. 'Look around. Realise where you are; work it out.'

Steve looked around the room. The yacht was decked out in dark mahogany panels along the wall, with matching cabinets, and the floor was covered in white shagpile carpet, save for the doorways where it was bare wood once more. There was the lowered seating area on the port side, the drinks to starboard, and quite possibly – Steve guessed – a kitchen behind one of the far doors. Enough room for staff quarters on such a vessel? He guessed so. And the boat was big; he wondered how much of the space was given to smuggling contraband.

'Your father,' he said, 'he's a gangster. Big in the mob world, if he can afford this. So why are you here, speaking to me about his dealings?'

'A-plus,' the woman answered, taking a sip of the vodka. 'The truth is, my father is dead. He was a Russian gangster who wanted a piece of America's lucrative prohibitionist trade. But he neglected to look after his competition at home, and when he returned they were waiting for him. I say dead; they never found most of the body.' Most. Steve swallowed.

'So why are you still in New York?' he asked. She nodded.

'That is the question, isn't it?' she said, rising and heading to the door. 'In which case, I believe it is time I told you about myself.' She took a gun from her handbag and peered through the porthole.

'My name,' she said, turning back, 'is Natalia Romanova. And I need police protection.'

-

**January 1920**

The winter suited Natalia. She enjoyed the snow in New York far more than she had ever done in Russia.

News of her father had saddened her, but she had seen it coming. His eyes had wandered to America and stayed there too long; his death had been inevitable the moment he sent her there.

'Ms Romanova? It is time to go.' Natalia nodded at the young man and stood, heading down the gangplank and onto the dock.

She was surrounded by an entourage of men in suits, concealing guns gracelessly and imposing their bulk on the equally big and obvious mobsters who waited on the dock. She was surprised the police didn't just come down here and arrest everyone.

'They haven't the power,' her father had said. Ivan Petrovich was a big man in Russia for several years; he was significantly less so when, six months ago, he had been blown up aboard his transport ship as it was docking. The Russian mobs had decided he had had enough money and power, and their decision was a unanimous one. So Petrovich was gone, and Natalia had visited Petrograd alone where she and a handful of mobsters had watched them bury a foot, and nothing more.

'New York is prettier than Russia,' she said as she entered the car. Obadiah Stane nodded and read his paper.

'Ms Romanova,' he said, 'you understand the consequences of this meeting, correct? Has your husband told you what we are-'

'My husband is a manchild concerned with the welfare of his tiny district,' Natalia interrupted. 'I understand the business myself perfectly well. He wishes to build up Hell's Kitchen; you need more space for your criminal enterprises. We can sort something out.'

'And the Russians?' Stane asked. Natalia shrugged.

'We do what we do,' she said. 'Gangs from my country, they are no concern of yours. You are not in competition here, not exactly; I can see ways for the two of you to work together.'

'Are you suggesting an actual alliance?' Stane wheezed with laughter. 'Ms Romanova, clearly nobody has taught you how to negotiate!'

'Mr Stane,' she said, 'as I said, you are not in competition. If you wish to be so, you may drop me off at the docks again and I will show you just what we are capable of. Our cars will be faster, our liquor better, our weapons stronger; we will drive you and your men out of New York and build our own empire. And perhaps Mr Torrio will be interested to hear why he suddenly has Russian mobsters breathing down his neck in Chicago.' Stane glared at Natalia.

'You're threatening me?' he asked. 'I was here to broker peace!'

'So was I,' Natalia replied simply. 'You threw the first insult.' Stane sighed and rubbed his eyes.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I really am. A partnership with the Russians would be a very good thing at this juncture, what do you suggest?' Natalia... well, she didn't exactly smile, Stane noted. But it was better than her usual movie star pout.

'You have a lot of cars and some good drivers,' she said. 'I have men who can make your cars even faster, even better. Do you think you could swap out some of your rum for some authentic Russian vodka?' Stane was beginning to smile at this conversation.

'I think we can reach an agreement,' he said.

'Good. Once we have drawn up a contract, I will introduce you to the man who will improve your cars.'

'A contract?' Stane said uncertainly. 'I don't like paper trails in this sorta thing.'

'A formality,' Natalia replied. 'We will have a lawyer present to witness it, then it will be destroyed. Utterly impartial, merely so someone has knowledge of our promise.'

'And if that someone were to... suddenly disappear?' Stane asked. 'Purely hypothetically, of course.'

'Then,' Natalia said, 'we would have another journey like this one. Only on that journey, I would use the pistol I've had my hand on for the entire journey to shoot your driver in the head and we'd let fate sort out the consequences.' Stane swallowed, and Natalia leaned close – through the corner of his eye Stane could see the handbag on Natalia's lap shifting to point at him.

'Do we have a deal, Mr Stane?' she asked.

-

**September 1921**

Stane's garages were powerhouses of activity. At the front, cars were legitimately repaired and tuned up, the prices were reasonable and a lot of business was done from day to day. In the room behind, separated by two sets of enormous garage doors, was the main warehouse; it was here that Stane's rumrunning ventures truly began. Enormous stills were set up, leading to bottles and barrels which would go to different places in the city. Named and numbered, they were lined up along the far wall and taken through the doors at the back to the rear garage, where Stane's moonshine cars were lined up with meticulous neatness. Tony had to admit, it looked impressive.

'Thank you, Mr Stark,' Stane said graciously. 'But this is a very small part of my operations here; Torrio's whiskey running comes through some of my other buildings, the smaller garages where we do not have space for entire stills... forgive me, Tony, but why did you come to visit me about this?'

Stark wandered over to a rack of full bottles and pulled the cork from one of them. He inhaled deeply, feeling the rich rum smell tickle the back of his nose.

'It's good stuff,' he said. 'And I can't begin to imagine the profit margins on this stuff, especially with the protection rackets and blackmail you've got going on too.' Stane grimaced. He had a feeling this was not going to be pretty.

'Are you here with news of Steve Rogers?' he asked. 'He is becoming quite a thorn in our side, Tony, we would appreciate it if you could help us do something about him.' Tony took a swig from the rum bottle and watched as Stane flinched.

'Are you asking me to bribe him?' he queried. 'Because I tried that, and it didn't work. The man's immovable, he's not going to stop going against you. Your only options are to get outta town or move onto more semi-legal activities.'

'We could kill him,' Stane said evenly. 'Like we did his friend.'

'Yeah, about that,' Tony replied, drawing something from his pocket. 'See, I don't think he's dead, and you almost got us both implicated in his attempted murder.'

'What is that?' Stane regarded the metal plate with suspicion.

'It's a product of mine,' Stark answered. 'Well, a part of a product. It was used to build a firebomb; guess where that bomb went.'

To his credit, Stane didn't react. He nodded amiably and approached Stark, clenching and unclenching his fists.

'Well it sounds to me like you're the only one implicated in the dear chief's murder, Tony,' he said. 'So if that's all you've got-'

'Well it wouldn't do if I were to accidentally let slip to Chief Rogers that I happen to know where the New York rum runners' main base of operations is. I mean, Rogers is already gaining a reputation, he doesn't do things by the book, and I'm sure he'd appreciate the help from a concerned citizen-' Stane sighed.

'What do you want, Stark?' he asked. Tony looked at the cars, a glint in his eye.

'I want in on this,' he said. Stane looked shocked, but Tony just nodded.

'Look,' he continued, 'your cars are good but whoever's giving you these improvements is doing shoddy work. They're not used to working with American cars, they're botching a lot of things. I mean, I haven't even seen the engines yet but those tyres aren't well kept. Your cars are decent, but they lack that, that... that Stark touch.'

'What are you saying?' Stane, exasperated, pinched the bridge of his nose. The man was giving him a headache.

'I'm saying you make me your parts supplier,' Tony said. 'You're already stealing them off me – don't pretend you're not, I know who it is and I'm gonna take them down in a few days – this way you get them legally. I'm also gonna come on a few days a week as a consultant and engineer: you put me in contact with this other engineer you've got, I'll work with him. In a few weeks, your cars will be better than they ever were. The police will be left in the dust.' Stane looked at his cars, considering his options.

'I bring you on as an engineer and a supplier,' he said, 'and you don't let slip to the cops that this place is where most of the cars are holed up?'

'That's the deal,' Tony said, arms folded as he admired the rows of identical vehicles.

'Seems a little one-sided,' Stane admitted.

'It is,' Tony argued. 'But can you take the chance that this won't get out? I have friends in high places, I practically run New York; you make me disappear too, questions are gonna be asked. I have a feeling the investigation would go quickly.'

'And my name would be the one they pull out of a hat,' Stane grumbled.

'I don't think they'd bother trying to arrest you,' Stark said. 'So, do we have a deal?' Stane winced, but he held out a hand.

'Deal,' he said. Stark shook his hand, grinning.

'A pleasure doing business with you once more, Mr Stane.'

 


	3. Shakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve learns more about the Russian operation in Manhattan as Stark begins sending out feelers, trying to stay on top of the pile. But things are slipping through his fingers; his factories are being overrun by gangsters and he's powerless to stop them. And worse, they're threatening Pepper; Tony decides he needs to find someone to protect her, but first Steve has a proposition for him.

**The Moonshine Trail, Part 3**

 

**July 1921**

'You're working with Stane?' Steve tried, and failed, to keep the shock from his face. Natalia turned to him and smiled.

'Everyone's worked for him at some point,' she said. 'My partnership is simply more equal than most. But that partnership will soon end, if the wind continues to blow against me.'

'What do you mean?' Steve approached her, drawing his own gun as she kept a lookout through the porthole in the door.

'We're split into two factions here,' she explained. 'A couple of upstart kids got some of the tougher gang members on their side, along with a lot of the scientists. They have their own methods of doing things: more extreme methods. The... less scrupulous characters in our organisation are taking up their mantle, it's getting hard to know who to trust.'

'Hence you need police protection,' Steve finished. 'Right. So why are we standing here like this?'

'Because there's someone outside with a gun,' Natalia said. She yanked open the door; Steve's hand instinctively went out, and there was a gasp as he dragged the man inside.

For a moment he was hidden in the folds of his greatcoat, struggling out of it. Then the coat was over his head and on the floor, and Clint stood in the room, gun drawn and pointing at Natalia.

'Who're you?' he asked, gun steady. Steve sighed.

'It's okay Clint,' he said, 'put the gun away. This is Natalia, she's under our protection.' Clint's gaze flickered between the big man and the much smaller woman next to him. Reluctantly, he dropped his arms to his side.

'Thanks,' Steve said. 'Natalia, this is Detective Barton. He's my backup. Barton, this is Natalia Romanova, she controls the Russian vodka imports.' Clint raised an eyebrow.

'And she's under our  _ protection _ ?' Natalia scowled.

'I'll fill you in later,' she replied. 'Right now, we need to get out of here; this place could be crawling with Russians any minute.'

'No kidding,' Clint said, 'I saw a coupla cars drive in here; definitely not the usual workers.' He turned to Natalia. 'Come on, the car's right outside.'

'Will you be okay here, Captain Rogers?' Natalia asked as she held out her arm for Clint to take. Steve nodded.

'Take her to the precinct, Clint,' he said. 'We'll regroup there. I'll find my own way out.'

Clint nodded and took Natalia by the arm. He led her out of the door.

The docks weren't so busy at the moment; Clint's eyes picked up maybe a dozen people working there, and some of them were plain dock workers, unloading cargo and sorting crates for storage. You could tell the Russians at a glance; they were the ones in the big suits, barely trying to conceal the guns they had in holsters under their arms. For his part, Clint didn't even have a holster – his gun was in his jacket pocket, he held firmly onto it as he guided Natalia to the car.

'Thank you, Mr Barton,' she said huskily as he opened the back door for her.

'Just get in,' Clint said. 'You and I, we need to have a talk on the way back. Any thought on how we're gonna get Steve out?'

'Just one,' Natalia said. 'Stop by the entrance to the docks, there'll be a man in a suit there; I need to talk to him.'

Clint did as he was instructed; in two minutes they were stopped by the entrance, and Natalia rolled down the window and whispered something to the man in the suit. Clint drove off afterwards.

'Take us straight to the precinct, Mr Barton,' Natalia said. 'We'll meet the chief there.'

'What did you tell the guy?' Clint asked, relaxing into the driving. He held the wheel carelessly in one hand and reclined a little in the seat.

'I told him exactly who your chief was,' Natalia explained. 'And I told him he rather disagreed with me on how much he should be paid for his discretion.'

The car screeched to a halt. Clint turned and stared wide-eyed at the woman who sat calmly in the back seat.

'Oh God!' he yelled. 'Why would you do that? He'll be killed! We have to go back! We have to-' One look at Natalia's face stopped Clint. She was staring at him in a way which predicted dire consequences for him if he did not start driving; he looked down, and noticed her hand in her handbag. His mind ticked through the possibilities, and he groaned.

'We're going to the precinct, Mr Barton,' she said. 'Your captain will be fine; he seems the sort to survive.'

'You say that now,' Clint muttered. 'What happens when we fish his body outta the Hudson in a few hours?' Hunched over, gripping the steering wheel , he drove back towards the police station.

-

Steve jumped at the first Molotov as it sailed against the window and smashed there, the fire spreading in a spiderweb explosion of red. For a moment the image of fire overwhelmed him – he saw the burning wreckage of a familiar car once more – but he shook it off and opened the door.

Something was shouted in Russian, and a gun came up. A big gun. Steve dived to the side as the Tommy gun ripped through the carpet and the far wall shattering glasses and bottles in the liquor cabinet. Steve stayed crouched against the wall, gun raised. The first man made a mistake, ran straight into the room; one shot and he was down.

The second man was smarter; his gun appeared around the door and Steve had to roll to avoid the first volley of bullets. But he came up firing, three shots from his revolver and the man collapsed backwards, his arm a mess of blood. That was when the second Molotov cocktail sailed into the yacht. This one broke the window and landed harmlessly on the soft carpet. Steve ran and grabbed it, spinning in place as the third man appeared at the door. He lined up his shot as Steve flicked the bottle in his direction. The hail of bullets sprayed out as Steve dived behind the sofa; there was an explosion of air which brushed over him.

He peered out; the room was aflame now, his route to the door blocked by fire and broken glass. The third man appeared to have survived and was partially in cover by the door – he pulled his jacket over his face with one hand, to block out the smoke, and jammed the gun into the crook of his elbow to hold it steady as he aimed. Steve took steady aim, but ducked down as the next rattle of gunfire sprayed a wide arc across the cabin.

He peered up again, the man was trying to aim again, but firing from that position was difficult. He wasn't exactly balanced, crouching in the doorway. Steve checked his gun; two bullets left. He groaned inwardly and got up. There was only one thing for it. He fired his two shots as he began running; the third man fell backwards in his attempt to dodge them, and Steve was across the cabin in two long strides. He angled he shoulder and leapt forward.

The window smashed and he found himself on the lower deck of the yacht, running around its edge. Beneath him, trapped against the railings, a mobster with a knife in his hand; Steve knocked him about with the butt of his gun and took the man's knife, tipping him overboard. Look left, look right; two men one side, three more the other. But the walkway was narrow, they couldn't shoot past each other for fear of hitting their friends on either side. Steve turned to the tree on the right and ran at them; one of them raised his gun but too late, the knife went into the first man and they were knocked back with the force of the body. An anguished cry from the stricken Russian as he fell, and Steve took his gun and drove the butt into the next man. He fell into the water with a yelp.

Steve turned, backing into the last man and tripping him as he fired the gun at the two on the left; the one in front took the bullets, but the one behind grabbed the body and held it against him, firing under the limp arm.

'Shit!' Steve cursed, and dived to the side.

The water was cool and relatively calm, but Steve had to fight it as it dragged him down. He didn't surface yet, instead kicking with the current and heading South under the water for as long as he could.

It was a few minutes before he surfaced at all, And when he did he found himself just a few piers down. Nobody seemed to be out here looking for him yet, though; he caught his breath and swam on, staying under the water as long as he could each time before he surfaced and caught his breath. By the time he reached West 27 th Street, far enough outside Hell's Kitchen that he felt he would not be spotted or pursued by the Russians, twenty minutes had passed.  _ Clint's probably getting worried _ , he thought to himself as he climbed up onto the little jetty nearby. His clothes were sodden; they clung to him like limpets, and his shirt was practically see-through. He walked down the pier, hoping the air would dry his clothes quickly – a dawn sun was peeking over the horizon, testing the waters of the sky for the day, but it would be hours yet before it was warm enough to start drying him out. He slicked back his drenched hair and looked about cautiously as he reached the end of the pier. A car was driving towards the street, from the direction of the Russian docks. Steve hadn't had a look at the Russian cars yet, but he decided to find out if this was one of them.

As it drew closer, he rolled up his sleeves and stepped out.

-

**April 1914**

'What do you think you're doing, Stevie?' Bucky's cry made Steve wince, but he opened the door on his side of the car and turned back to him with a winning smile.

'Relax, Buck!' he said. 'I'm just gonna go talk to them is all.' Bucky grimaced as Steve slammed the door shut and marched confidently up to the group of men who were idling outside the bar. They wore pinstriped suits and several were smoking – Bucky thought he recognised a few of them.

And he knew that if he recognised them, Steve certainly did. They were roughly the same age (Stevie had always been proud that he was three weeks older than Bucky) but Steve just... he just  _ knew _ the streets around here better than Buck ever could. Maybe it was all the times he'd been beaten up in back alleys and outside clubs; that sorta thing just had to leave an impression, right? Right now he was approaching the head honcho with an enormous grin on his face and –  _ Oh God,  _ Bucky thought, hiding his face in his hand – giving Big Donnie and playful clap on the shoulder with his big shovel hand. This was not gonna end well.

'What do you think you're doing Stevie?' In truth, Steve hadn't really thought about what he was doing. But he knew these guys were in the bootjacking business, and he had a hunch they had ties to Stark's newspaper empire. So the moment he spotted Big Donnie, he'd decided to try a little sweet-talkin'.

'Big Donnie!' he cried, slapping the giant on the shoulder, an enormous grin plastered on his face. 'How are ya? I heard you got outta the slammer, I jus' wanted to pass by and see how you're doin'! Back with the old gang already, I see; how's Old Dopey treatin' ya?' Big Donnie scowled. He was a bouncer most nights, and a fight promoter when it suited him, but the police knew him as a full-time gangster, muscle for the newest big boss in town; he put the screws on whoever was in the way, be it a small business owner or some gutter trash thought they could smack-talk the big man. Now he was looking the young cop up and down, and deciding that perhaps he should put the screws to this guy, just in case; he knew too much anyhows.

'Y'know,' he said offhandedly, 'you seem to know a lot about a guy who just got outta jail. Who's your contact? One a' these slugs?' Steve chuckled and shook his head.

'I just say what I hear on the street,' he said, putting a friendly arm around the big man. 'Besides, you're an old pal; I never forget a face from the Bronx, and yours is especially unforgettable!'

For just a moment, confusion muddled its way onto Big Donnie's face. This kid was from the Bronx? He wracked his brains, wondering just where their paths had crossed before.

'I don't remember you,' he said bluntly, pushing Steve away and facing him. 'Refresh my memory?'

'Oh sure,' said Steve, getting into a fighting stance. 'It was a few years ago now, I was just a kid, but if I remember I tried to get you with a right hook like  _ this _ -' Steve's solid fist struck Big Donnie on the left side of his jaw; he spun and went down face-first as Steve danced lightly above him, shaking his hand from the shock of the punch.

'Only last time you blocked it!' he said to the recumbent gangster. 'Can you believe that? Good times!' He looked around; the gangsters at Donnie's shoulders no longer seemed so small or so few. They gathered up around him as Donnie got to his feet.

'You're that punk kid?' he slurred. 'That punk kid tried to call me out when I wuz workin'? Yeah, you need 'nother beatin'.' Donnie found it hard to speak – he guessed the right hook had dislocated his jaw, a miracle he was still standing, really. But he was just that angry; this kid wasn't gonna get away with that, no sir.

'What do you think you're doing Steve?' More of a sigh this time, as Bucky helped him up from the floor. His face was bruised, one eye was blackened and he had a split lip; his body would ache for days and he'd be a mass of swelling by tomorrow. But he accepted Buck's outstretched hand gratefully, clutching his ribs as he gasped in a painful breath.

'His fists were surprisingly soft,' Steve said through gritted teeth. 'I was tryin' to get some information.'

'About Stark?' Bucky winced as the pain from his own injuries blossomed. They were lesser than Steve's – another black eye, sure, but no split lip, his cheek would be swollen for a while but he was relatively untouched – but he still felt them. Steve nodded.

'That's right. But I guess I need some more practise.' Despite himself, Bucky smiled.

'You need to learn how this police business works,' he said. 'You gotta let them try to hit  _ you  _ first!'

'You saw him push me!' Steve protested as they limped back to the car. 'Besides, the only eyewitnesses were mobsters, who's gonna believe them?'

'You'll be lucky to escape probation, punk,' Bucky said as he opened Steve's door and slid him into the seat. Steve grinned.

'Only if you testify, jerk,' he muttered. Bucky smiled warmly. He got in the car and started the engine. Before he went, though, he turned to Steve and ran his fingers through the big man's hair.

'You look after yourself, okay?' he asked. 'I don't wanna have to save your ass everytime we're on patrol.' Steve smiled back at him.

'Don't worry,' he said. 'I'm getting better, I promise. I'll be able to fight my own battles soon.'

'You already are,' Bucky replied as they took off. 'It's winning them that's the problem!'

-

**July 1921**

Natalia and Clint were waiting fifteen minutes for Steve to turn up. Whenever Clint tried to interrogate her she'd shut him up with a glare and a reply of, 'I'll only talk to Captain Rogers.' So he grudgingly accepted that after ten minutes and went to make himself some coffee. Natalia at least answered that, no, she was okay without coffee, but if they had any vodka he could bring her a glass of that. Or a bottle.

Clint had just finished checking the cupboards for vodka (all out. Darn – now he wanted vodka too) and returned to his desk with a mug of coffee, when the door slammed open and Steve entered. His shirt and trousers were soaked, and the two of them noticed the red staining his shirt; a deep red, watered down but drying to maroon. Clint stared open-mouthed; Natalia just stared levelly at Steve.

'What happened?' Clint managed eventually.

'Had to take a dip,' Steve said. 'I lost 'em in the river, jacked one of their cars when it found me – which, by the way, I'm still trying to figure out how I knew they were there. Any ideas?' he asked, glaring at Natalia. She stared at her feet, feeling suddenly ashamed.

'That was on me,' she said quietly. 'On the other hand, you've just proven you're the man for the job – what's the plan?'

'Haven't got one,' Steve said. 'But thanks to you, I have some more information. If the Russians are tricking out Stane's cars, we're gonna need some new engines of our own. And I know just the man for the job.'

-

Big Donnie sat opposite Stark in the dingy office as the thin man took a swig of whiskey and skimmed through some papers.

'Who's the dame?' he asked. 'What makes her important enough for Steve to go rushing in like that?'

'Russian, Mr Stark,' Donnie said. 'Leads the gang. Romanova, Natalia.' Tony nodded and took a sip of whiskey from the glass in contemplation. He skimmed through a few more papers half-heartedly.

'I hear there's some problems in the Russian camp,' he remarked. 'You think she's been arrested?' Donnie shook his head.

'She spoke to me at the gate,' he said, 'thought I was one a' hers. I told 'em, a' course; no sense letting a copper live.' He stared darkly at the wall behind Tony, who shivered.

'Good call, big guy,' he said. 'You didn't blow your cover. But I'm issuing an order right now: Steve Rogers is not to be killed. He'll make things interesting around here, I might be able to get a piece of the action. Thanks, Donnie, you can go now.' Donnie stood, taking up half the office with his bulk. He bowed slightly and left. In the few years he'd spent in the slammer his flab had turned to bulk, his scars had multiplied and he'd gotten meaner. But he'd also gotten smarter; he knew where the money was now, and he could smell it all over Stark. He wondered how long that would last.

For his part, Stark rang down and called for his reporters. They gathered in his small office and he stood on the desk to instruct them.

'I'm looking for a big scoop,' he announced. 'Anything you've got on Obadaiah Stane: accounts, contacts, rumours, what kinda coffee he drinks every morning! In a month or two we're gonna be right on top of one of the biggest arrests of the decade, the more information we can get right now the more we can spin this! I also need any dirt you've got on Steven Rogers and Janet van Dyne, we're going both ways with this. And you know what? Let's get something about Barnes in there too; he might be dead, but he was on Stane's case before he bought it and Lord knows there were some unsavoury characters in his pocket. Have we got it?'

A chorus of nods and everyone hustled out of the room. Arrest of the decade? They'd get one Hell of a bonus for that! Tony nodded, a satisfied smirk on his face, as someone else entered the room and sighed.

'Standing on the desk again? You know it's not gonna take that every day!' Tony leapt smartly onto the floor and embraced Pepper as she tried to admonish him some more.

'No... Mr Stark, Tony, you need to-'

'Ms Potts!' he said. 'How are you? Are you good? Would you like a drink? Whiskey? Vodka?'

'Tony, you need to deal with this,' she interrupted him. 'The factories are  _ swarming _ with gangsters, half of them don't even work there but security won't keep them out! What did you agree to now, Tony?' Stark stared at her, biting his lower lip. He turned and grabbed his jacket.

'I can't help,' he said. 'Not yet,' he added, when Pepper opened her mouth to object. 'But you're doing a great job, take some time off, I'll oversee the factories personally. I'm digging up as much dirt as I can on Stane right now, I'll get us out of this.'

'No, Tony!' Pepper was in front of his again, blocking his exit. She glared at him and advanced, backing him up to the desk.

'That's enough mob connections,' she said. 'Get them out of there, or I quit! I cannot handle this anymore; I've been doing your accounts since you fired the accountant two weeks ago, and on top of that I'm ordering everyone else around and dealing with issues on the factory floor, I have to deal with any publicity disasters – which, by the way, that explosion at the start of the year did not help – and Stane comes in periodically, asking if I've seen you! He's started staying, Tony! He waits for you in my office!' Tony stared down at the floor, his face suddenly serious.

'I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'But I mean it; the best I can do right now is to give you a holiday. Stane wants to intimidate you? He's gotta find you first. And I'll have the dirt on him before he can.'

Pepper sighed and nodded.

'Fine,' she said. 'But... just promise me you'll stay safe, too? Don't let him get to you, involve the police if you have to!'

'As soon as I can,' Tony promised, resting his hands on Pepper's shoulders. 'In the meantime, I'll get some protection. Stane won't be able to touch me in a coupla weeks, and in a month or two I'll have him in the palm of my hand.'

Tony stared after Pepper as she left, his mind drifting. Perhaps he could do with some police protection after all.

He picked up the phone.

'Hello, operator. Get me Steve Rogers.'

-

'Are you ever gonna tell me why you called me in?' Tony raised an eyebrow and cocked his head at Steve, who had refused to say anything since the phone call. They were heading down another set of steps in the ridiculous building, wandering through the precinct almost aimlessly. Tony huffed and stuck his hands in his pockets, kicking at the air as he followed the captain.

'This is useless!' he muttered. 'Where are we going? What are we doing? Are you always like this, keeping secrets from your team, huh?' Steve stopped in front of another unmarked door and turned to face him.

'Know this, Stark,' he said. 'I don't exactly trust you; as far as I'm concerned, you coulda been the one who killed Buck. I aim to find the guy who did it, but that's a long-term goal – for now, we're just focusing on taking out the rumrunners in New York. And I need your help to do it.'

Tony remembered the conversation they'd had the day before.

'No, Steve, look, I just need you to-'

'I don't have that kinda power, Tony!'

'I know! So talk to Janet, see if she-'

'We're booked up with corrupt cops and you want them to  _ protect _ her?' Tony sighed and took another swig of whiskey.

'No!' he cried. 'Isn't there someone you know, then? An ex-cop, someone razor-straight? I need someone you trust, Steve.'

'I can't help you Tony,' Steve replied. 'Look, you've gotta deal with these problems on your own. And I need you in tomorrow anyway; you can talk to someone here, see if they can help you.'

'What, one of your corrupt cops?' There's a sound on the other end of the line; it could be a chuckle – despite himself, Tony grins.

'So you're coming round to my way of thinking now, huh?' A pause as Tony allowed himself to smirk in the privacy of his office.

'Don't you believe it, Rogers,' he retorted. 'I'm just gonna find my own man for the job, I know who I can trust.'

'You got an eye for that sorta thing, huh? That why you're in with Stane?' Tony's hand slipped; the glass of whiskey fell, splashing a pattern of beads onto the carpet.

'Shit!' he muttered; then, aloud, 'there's a line there Rogers, you just crossed it.' He cursed himself quietly, unable to hide the slight tremor in his voice. But it brought Steve back too, serious police chief mode.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I know this is difficult. I appreciate your helping me.'

'Does that mean you'll find some guys?' Tony asked. He felt himself beginning to shake.  _ It's just the drink, Tony, keep it together. You're... you're a little drunk is all. You'll get over it. _

Steve didn't answer for a long time. To Tony, the wait was an eternity, his mind ticking overtime with all the possible responses, counterpoints, whole arguments crowding his head. They still couldn't block out the big name booming round his skull; Stane.

'I'll talk to Janet,' Steve said eventually. 'See if she knows anyone able to put in the work. The amount you could pay them, I reckon there's a few who'd jump at the chance.'

'Thanks, Steve,' Tony said. He felt himself calming down.  _ Breathe in, breathe out. Just keep breathing, Tony. You got this. _

The next day, things were back to normal it seemed. Tony could see nothing of the man who'd spoken to him the day before; Captain Rogers was back to being Captain Rogers. Tony couldn't help but keep an eye on him, too; you didn't get to the top so fast by being a straight-edge. Barnes had known that, but did Steve know that? His eyes narrowed.

_ What's your game, Rogers? What cards are you hiding up your sleeve? _

Now Steve opened the door, and Tony gasped. All thoughts of trust and protection were, momentarily, forgotten at the sight before him.

'Are these yours?' he cried, staring at the sleek black cars which lined the room. It was a dark, dingy garage, entered from a basement and which opened up at a ramp onto the street above. The garage door was at the far end of the room – there must have been at least a dozen cars in here.

'You're good with mechanics, right?' Steve asked. 'We've only got two cars, but I need a guy who can work the engines, make 'em as fast as Stane's and go for twice as long!'

'You're planning a war of attrition?' Tony asked, lifting one of the engine covers and examining the tiny engine. He snorted at the sight of it.

'What's up?' Steve asked, approaching him. Tony smirked and gestured to the engine.

'This must be an original 1908 engine,' he said. 'For a start it's caked in oil and grease, that's a hazard. It's also pathetic, we'll barely make forty with that thing and they're gonna be going a lot faster.'

'How much faster?'

'Maybe twenty miles and hour,' Tony said. His eyes sparkled:  _ sixty miles an hour. Imagine that!  _

'Can you make these cars go that fast?' Steve asked. Tony shook himself back to reality and nodded.

'I'll do more than that,' he said. 'Give me a week, you'll have two top-tier racers to take down those rumrunners.'

'Great,' Steve said. 'Then I've gotta track down some drivers.'

Tony stayed for an hour, tinkering with the car and taking some measurements, scribbling notes in a small black pad and at times just staring at the cars. They were Model T's, old ones, the police were still using them. Old workhorses perhaps, but good ones, tough.  _ They'd take a beating _ , Tony thought gleefully.  _ Maybe we can use that. _

_ We.  _ His mind picked up on the word. Was he really with Rogers? Was Rogers really with  _ him _ ? That question, he felt, was just as important as the first. He mentally shrugged; he was doing his digging anyway, he'd find out soon enough.

_ Or you'll be shot in the back and buried in the hole _ , his brain fired out. Was that Rogers' game? To prove treachery to Stane? Stane. The name kept coming back like a bad smell. It just wouldn't wash off. 

Well, he had Jarvis. Maybe the man was enough to stop the mob steamrolling him immediately; if not, it'd be a dark day for Stark industries if he couldn't find some kind of foothold against the New York contingent before the end of August. They were starting to move faster, and Tony had to keep up the pace.

He felt the shakes coming on again.  _ This isn't fair! I haven't even had a drink today! _ Tony's mind thought back to the liquor cabinet in his apartment; he'd be raiding it tonight, if only so his sleep wasn't plagued by nightmares. Obadaiah's face loomed up in his mind, sneering down at him contemptuously. He slipped the notebook back in his pocket and made for the door.

It was yanked open as he reached it, and Tony found himself looking into the angry eyes of a thin black man in a plain shirt and khaki trousers.

'Are you Mr Stark?' he asked. Tony stepped back and fired a glare at the man.

'Who's asking?' he retorted, the words tumbling out of his mouth. The man gave him a quick once over, and his face softened.

'I'm James Rhodes,' he introduced himself. 'Ex-military, thought about becoming a cop. I hear you're in need of some protection, Mr Stark.'

'Not me personally,' Tony said, far too quickly, 'but yes, I need someone to protect my assistant Ms Potts while she's out of town for a few weeks. Who sent you down here, anyway?'

'Captain Rogers,' Rhodes answered. 'He told me he was looking for men he could trust, remembered serving with me in the war.'

'And you're straight? I mean, you're not in the pocket of the mob or anything?'

'Joined the force a coupla years ago,' Rhodes said. 'I'm a lowdown, the mob wouldn't touch me. Besides, I play it by the book. They'd sooner kill me than pay me.'

'How do you know?' Tony's eyes were suspicious, and Rhodes grinned ferociously.

'Because they tried, Mr Stark,' he said. 'I won't go into the details, but Ms Potts would be safe with me.' Tony sat down on the step of the car, head in his hands. He couldn't stop this damn shaking! He was talking too fast, he knew it, and he felt the sobs rising in his throat.

Rhodes was there suddenly, next to him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. Tony didn't flinch, but looked up at the man.

'I can also help you right now,' he said quietly. 'Look at me, Stark; you're just gonna keep your eyes on me and we're gonna breathe: in... out... in... out...'

Tony breathed with him, feeling the rising and falling in his chest as the tears rose to the surface and paused. Wetness pricked the corners of his eyes but they stayed glued to Rhodey's calm, confident face as he repeated in, out, in, out, their breaths synchronised. After several minutes, Tony felt himself becoming markedly calmer, and his eyelids grew heavy. He collapsed against the car and rubbed his eyes.

'Thanks,' he said. 'Oh my God, that was exhausting! What happened?'

'You panicked,' Rhodes explained. 'I calmed you down. You need a ride home? My shift was over ten minutes ago.'

'You really finish so early?' Tony asked; he could hear the tired slur in his voice. Rhodes smiled.

'Night shift,' he said. 'It sucks, but someone's gotta do it.'

'Not now, you don't,' Tony said, as he felt the man's weight under his shoulder. 'You're working for me now. You'll get your first week's pay in advance, get yourself some snazzy new clothes.'

'Whatever you say, Mr Stark,' Rhodes said with a chuckle.

'It's Tony,' Stark replied. 'I think you'll do fine, Rhodey.'

 


	4. Plan of Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Rhodey get to know each other while Clint goes over the books at Stark Industries with Pepper. It's only when Tony's gone that they begin discussing plans to bring down Stane.

 

**August 1921**

The envelope was right on time.

Just a few days after speaking to Tony stark, Big Donnie received a neat little package in a plain brown envelope in his mailbox; he brought it in with the bills, set down his coffee and, sitting in his bathrobe at the small kitchen table, counted out the money.

A wad of bills as big as his fist; at the time Donnie had been a little smaller than he now was, but only a little. It was Stark who insisted on the repeated hand-measurements, though; Donnie appreciated the attention to detail.

He wasn't exactly intelligent, but even so Big Donnie found Stark a hard man to comprehend. He was a big-picture man who prided himself on the small details, a scientist who tinkered and guessed and went in without thinking. He made rash decisions, out-thought his opponents and came out on top through certain disaster. Donnie had never really understood how he'd done it, but there was always something about the Starks. Something in the genes made them shrewd, reckless, tricky.

He was, however, smarter than his opponents gave him credit for. Donnie crumpled up the envelope and stuck it in the ashtray on the table, setting a match to it; it burned merrily and curled at the corners like a dead spider. The big man took the cash and went upstairs, spinning the combination lock carelessly on his safe and shoving the money inside. And so it was he went downstairs, and Obadaiah Stane was waiting for him, standing in his kitchen.

Sunlight streamed in through the open back door. Through the window Donnie could see several other mobsters standing to attention in his yard; he doubted they'd come in unless they absolutely had to. Big Donnie had a reputation.

'Donnie.' Obadaiah Stane nodded a greeting. Donnie nodded back and picked up his coffee.

'This is a nice place, Donnie,' Stane said. 'Bit small, though, don't you think? I imagine you'd be looking for a bigger place than this, man like you; a man with  _ ambition _ .' 

'Money's too unpredictable, my line o' work.' Donnie took a sip of his coffee and unfolded the newspaper. On the front page, splashed like blood on the sidewalk:  _ Is New York Property Magnate Behind Recent Citywide Firebombings? _

'That's one of Stark's papers,' Stane said as Donnie stared at the page with widening eyes. 'I take it you're still talking to Stark? From the money he just sent you. It seems like you are.' Donnie couldn't take his eyes off the paper. He took another sip of coffee.

'I said nothing about you,' he said. 'Besides, these aren't his words, look.'

Words by Ben Urich. Stane peered at the tiny writing and nodded thoughtfully.

'Urich... Urich...' Stane rolled the word around his mind. 'I'll put my feelers out, see what we can dig up. Meantime Donnie, keep doing what you're doing. All being well, I'll be back soon with some well-paid work for you.' He tipped his hat and fit himself through the small back door, stepping out and heading toward the front of his house. Donnie waited for the sound of the garden gate to squeak and slam shut, before turning to the garden.

The mobsters were gone.

-

**September 1921**

Tony saw them once or twice, the Russians. Not Natalia, whose gaze he avoided with a determination he rarely found, but which he knew was necessary because his poker face wasn't exactly great when it came to beautiful women, and the knowing smile he'd flash might just tip off Stane. No, Tony saw the twins.

That was what Stane called them. Tony couldn't tell. He worked on the cars, threw surreptitious glances now and then as the three of them conversed easily in Russian. One was male, the other female; she held his arm and leaned down a little to whisper in his ear, particularly when he got angry and ground his teeth. And he was frequently angry – he stomped and fretted and pulled at his hair and snapped at Stane almost as often as he sulked in the corner.

Their temperaments could not be more different. His was frenetic and spiky, his quick tongue throwing insults in Russian – he could tell by the way Stane's hands flew up in a conciliatory gesture nearly every time he spoke. She was quiet and reserved, when she and Stane spoke it was quiet and easy, the atmosphere calmed down considerably. But there was an intensity underneath as she stared at him, and Tony got the feeling her whispers were as much goading her brother and giving him ideas as they were placating him when things got too heated. As far as twins went, Tony decided, these two weren't exactly identical.

'They're the upstarts,' Natalia explained at the precinct. 'Pietro and Wanda Maximoff; they used to control the distribution, they had some good ideas to expand our business.'

'And then what?' Tony asked. 'They get a bit power-mad? Why don't you separate them?'

'They'd kill me,' she said. 'They're inseparable, they're rarely ten feet from each other. Besides, they don't work well with others: without her, he's out of control, insulting and lazy and confrontational; without him, she's insufferable, snide and irritating and argumentative.'

'They sound like a perfect match,' Steve said. 'What can we do about them?' Natalia stared at him curiously, a smile playing on her lips.

'The question, Captain,' she said, 'is: what are you  _ prepared _ to do?'

'Are you suggesting we kill one of them?' Clint asked uncertainly. 'That's not cop work, Nat; go ask your gang buddies to take care of them for you.'

'She can't,' Tony said. 'They're rarely out of their stronghold in Hell's Kitchen; they have an apartment near the docks, owned by Stane. They send runners for everything and they keep out of sight; until Natalia is out of the way they're staying pretty well hidden.'

'So what do we do?' asked Steve.

'We do what we do best,' Sam chimed in. 'We book 'em.'

-

**July 1921**

James Rhodes, it turned out, had an interesting past.

'I was in a gang for a few years,' he said. 'Never did anything big, I stayed away from it as much as I could. But going straight, that sets a few people on edge; you end up with a lot of grudges against you, a lot of people running scared.'

'Why did you become a cop?' Tony asked before taking a swig of whiskey. Rhodey stared into his glass.

'There's a lot of reasons to get outta the gangs,' he said. 'Especially if you're a low-down like me, you're guaranteed a lotta heat. But the war changed it for me more than anything. I discovered I was good at fighting, but I realised I didn't wanna fight for the wrong side. Don't get me wrong,' he added quickly, at Stark's deadpan expression, 'I'm against prohibition, like any sane American! But back when I started, this wasn't about prohibition. We worked for the  _ Chicago Tribune _ , we'd go find vendors who were selling the  _ American _ and make 'em take our paper instead. Lotta threats, sometimes we had to beat someone up. It was never really my thing, I didn't like starting fights.'

'But you wanna be my bodyguard?' Stark asked. 'I imagine there'll be a lot of fighting involved.'

'So long as you don't start it,' Rhodes replied. 'I'll defend you, but I'm not your attack dog, got it?' Stark nodded.

'Shall we get outta here?' he asked, grabbing his coat. 'We gotta swing by the factory, make sure everything's okay.'

'You sure that's a good idea?' Rhodes asked, getting to his feet. 'I mean, you've had a lotta whiskey already, and I've had one vodka; I think it'd be a bad idea to drive at the moment.'

'We don't have to,' Tony said. 'I've got a driver.'

The late afternoon air was warm and close outside the barber shop they had been under, louging in a speakeasy in the basement. Tony's car pulled up at a signal and Jarvis stepped out, opening the door for them.

'Thanks, Jarvis,' Tony said as he entered, motioning for Rhodey to follow. He did so hesitantly.

'Are you sure this is a good idea?' he asked. 'I mean, you had a panic attack just thinking about this yesterday.'

'Don't... don't remind me,' Tony said, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'For the moment it's all under control. I got this, Rhodey, trust me.'

'And that's another thing,' Rhodes said. 'When did I give you permission to start calling me Rhodey?'

'It'll grow on you, I'm sure,' Tony replied. 'Come on, you won't be with me for long; you're Pepper's bodyguard, remember?'

'She's not the only one who need protecting, Stark,' Rhodes said. 'Make sure you stay safe while we're gone.'

'Hey, I'll be with the Captain!' Tony replied breezily. 'What's the worst that could happen?' Tony's smile drooped the moment he caught sight of Rhodes' face. He looked deadly serious.

'You're in the pocket of the mob and you're hanging out with higher-ups in the police force,' he said. 'What's more, these higher-ups aren't even on the mob payroll; you're letting yourself in for a world of hurt, Tony; be careful how you tread, you're on rocky ground as it is.'

'If you say so. Come on, we're here.'

The factory was a nondescript building, identical to the others in the row around it. A long, ugly slab of a building; Rhodey shivered despite the warmth.

'She works here?' he asked. 'No wonder she needs a vacation.' Tony regarded the building critically.

'It could do with a fresh lick of paint,' he admitted. 'But that's something for another day. Come on, we're only here to pick up Ms Potts.' They entered the factory through a small side door.

Tony had specified that his office in the factory had no other entrance besides the personal one, through a locked door at the back of the factory. Nobody was allowed up there with Mr Stark's express permission, or a copy of the key; of course, nowadays that was at Ms Pott's discretion, and Tony remembered the last time he'd been here, on a particularly bad day on the line.

-

**May 1921**

'All of you, out!'

Tony's voice rang clear through the factory. Those workers who weren't in the pocket of the mob quickly downed tools and headed for the door, they had enough sense to know Mr Stark was not a man to be around when he was angry. The mobsters, on the other hand, were full of alcohol and arrogance and they were ready to push boundaries. They gathered on one side of the room and stared him down, smirking. They might have intimidated Stark, Had Obadaiah Stane not walked in at that moment. Wide-eyed, he hurried to the centre of the room as Tony turned to him.

'You see this, Stane?' he yelled, gesticulating with the hip flask in his hand. 'You see what your boys do? They test me, they wanna see how far I'm willing to go! Do you wanna know how far I'm willing to go, Stane?'

'Tony, calm down,' Stane muttered, getting close, but Tony pushed him away with a hand and marched towards the door at the back of the factory.

'Do you know what I can do, Stane?' he cried. 'Your boys here, I'll end them! We make your weapons here, Stane, parts that  _ you _ need! But I own half of New York now, I don't need this. I will end this factory, Stane, I'll burn it to the ground and pin it on your gang! Your boys are thieves and con men and they're lazy on top of it!'

'Tony!' Stane shouted, but he was already hammering on the door.

'Open up Pepper!' he yelled. 'Come on, we're getting out of here, I'm turning this factory into rubble!'

'Tony, we can sort this out!' Stane tried. 'Look, I'm sorry! I didn't know about the thefts!'

'The Hell you didn't!' Stark roared back. 'Come on Pepper, open the door, we're leaving!'

'I'm not coming out, Tony!' Pepper's voice rang clear and furious through the wood. Tony blinked in shock, but recovered and glowered at the door.

'Yes you are!' he yelled. 'I'll kick this door down if I have to!' There was a click as the door unlocked, and Tony allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. Then, an arm lashed out and grabbed his collar, dragging him into the stairwell.

Pepper locked the door and dragged him upstairs. Too shocked to resist, Tony could only follow blindly.

'What are you doing here?' she asked, shoving him into the office and slamming the door. 'You don't see me coming into your workplace and messing shit up, do you?' Tony could only mutter a gibberish reply before she continued her barrage.

'I am effectively running this factory now,' she snapped. 'You burn this place down, you're leaving me – and hundreds of other New Yorkers – without a job. Your newspaper pins it on the mob, you drag my name through the mud for employing guys with mob ties. What are you thinking, Tony? Or do you even think at all?'

For a moment, Tony was silent. Then he sat down in a chair and threw the hip flask to the side.

'What can I say?' he murmured. 'I'm having a hard time right now. Stane has me over a barrel; he's got so much dirt on me, an anonymous tip-off would ruin my career. I can't stop him, Pepper, he's got me right where he wants me.' He stared up at Pepper's stern face, his eyes ringed with dark circles and brimming with tears. Pepper's face seemed to soften a little and she leaned in close.

'So play the game,' she said. 'He's got dirt on you? You're a reporter! You're New York's media mogul; get the dirt on him, any way you can, let him believe he's got you until you can get him back. You knew what you were getting into when you first did business with them, Tony; you've gotta solve this yourself.' Tony wiped his eyes and nodded. He'd been tired lately; columns were already appearing in papers all over the city about his private life, the police had questioned him about his alcohol (they hadn't found anything, of course, but it had been a scare nonetheless) and he knew Stane was behind it all.

'Alright,' he said eventually. 'I'm good. We keep the factory open, Miss Potts, I'll move as fast as I can.' He stood to go, but Pepper's hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to face her.

'Be careful,' she said. 'Find someone you can trust, someone in the law. If you've got an ally among all the corrupt cops, you've got a safe place.'

'That's gonna be the difficult bit,' Tony said.

'You can't do this on your own, Tony,' Pepper said. 'Don't try. Get some help.'

Tony nodded and made his way down the stairs unsteadily. Pepper unlocked the door again and he faced Stane in the middle of the factory floor.

'Alright Stane,' he said. 'The factory stays. Your men will be punished for their thefts, I'll make sure of that. Since it's a police matter, I'll find a man on the force with a decent head for maths to go over the books, find out exactly how much has been stolen and narrow down the suspects. Any ideas on the guy for the job?'

'Certainly, Tony!' Stane said, all too happy to comply. 'I'd recommend...'

Tony listened intently and listed the names Stane gave him, before making a mental note not to use them at all. He went to a payphone nearby and connected to the precinct.

'Commissioner,' he said. 'How are you? Listen, I need to call in a favour; have you got anyone there with a good eye for dodgy accounts?'

-

**July 1921**

Barton was in the office when Tony arrived, poring over the latest ledgers with Pepper leaning over his shoulder. He looked up and nodded briefly as Tony entered, ducking his head back down to the books immediately afterwards.

'You had a whole pallet of metal plates go missing last week,' he said casually. 'Who knows what they're building with all of this stuff; take a look at the list so far, is there anything they could put on a car there?' Tony picked up a piece of paper and ran through it in his head.

'Not a lot,' he replied, handing the paper back. 'We're looking at something larger scale; you think they're gonna try and build their own weapons?' he asked. Clint chewed on the pencil he was using to jot down notes and shrugged.

'I don't make these things,' he said. 'But we're looking at parts from all ranges, according to Ms Potts: bombs, guns, grenades... there's a lot of stuff going missing, but nothing really adds up to a whole weapon of any sort.'

'What's going on?' Rhodes asked, stepping into the room. He'd been hanging in the doorway, waiting for Tony to introduce him, but this sounded far more serious than he'd first thought.

'Oh! Pepper, Rhodey; Rhodey, Pepper,' Tony said suddenly. 'Pepper, this is Rhodey, he'll be keeping you safe while you're off work.' Rhodey nodded his greeting and turned to Tony.

'Mr Stark,' he said, 'it's getting late, don't you think you should be heading home?'

'Or out for a drink,' Tony replied. 'I'll see you guys soon, call me if anything happens. Keep up the good work, Barton!' With that, Tony breezed out. Rhodey sighed and smiled, holding out a hand.

'Sergeant James Rhodes,' he said. Pepper took his hand and shook it.

'Pepper Potts,' she said. 'I'm glad you finally arrived, we can get started properly.'

'Thank God!' Clint sighed, slamming the ledger shut and leaning back in his chair. 'All that maths is so boring, we were expecting you an hour ago!'

'Stark wanted to vet me first,' Rhodes said. 'What do you mean we can get started properly?'

'Tony's got some good connections,' Pepper said. 'He knows a lot of people. But the people he knows are all in Stane's pocket. It's time we did a little digging of our own.'

'That's where we come in,' Clint said with a grin. 'See, there are a ton of guys out there who wanna see Stane fall; you know a few of them from your past, we could use you there if you still keep in contact with any of them. Otherwise, you're good muscle if things get out of hand.'

'We're digging up the dirt on Obadaiah Stane?' Rhodes asked uncertainly. Pepper nodded.

'We're leaving as soon as we've figured out a plan. You got anything for us?' she asked. Rhodey stared between them hesitantly.

'There are a coupla guys I could try,' he admitted. 'They're all the way in Chicago, though, and a cop doesn't make much money-'

'Stark will cover the cost,' Pepper assured him; he grinned.

'Then I can probably work something out,' he said. 'Think you can cover the cost of a few calls?'

'I've got this,' Pepper said. 'Clint, what about you?'

'I'll hit up the local dives,' he said. 'I know some low-lifes working for a so-called property developer in Hell's Kitchen; I happen to know they're bringing through Russian vodka for Stane's bars, but the docks are leased by another guy entirely. I've not got a name yet, but it's only a matter of time.'

'Then it's settled,' Pepper said. 'We're gonna do some digging. If we do this right, Stane won't have time to use his leverage against Stark.'

'But if he does,' Rhodey cautioned, 'we haven't got a chance. Stark's gonna have to do something desperate if Stane's got something big on him, and the way I hear it Stane himself is pretty desperate at the moment. The Russians are putting the squeeze on him, he's ready to pull a stunt of his own.'

'Then we'll tell Steve,' Clint said. 'He'll bring the muscle, we'll hit Stane and make him stop.'

'So we have a plan?' Rhodes asked. Clint and Pepper grinned and nodded, and Rhodey found himself grinning too.

_ Yeah _ , he thought,  _ we have a plan _ .

-

West 49 th Street was bustling with activity; cars came and went, transporting the vodka to the garages across Hell's Kitchen. Mobsters stood to either side as dock workers unloaded the crates of cargo into waiting lorries. It was a big operation, big enough that Stane was there personally to ensure everything went smoothly.

_ He's not the one I want _ .

She moved unseen amongst the crates, dodging the lazy glances of the mob enforcers standing guard. There were surprisingly few around the ship and she used that to her advantage, sprinting across the dock and climbing easily up the rope which moored the front of the big ship to the dock. There were some workers wandering around, but most of them were below decks.

_ Perfect _ .

She headed for a metal door and swung it open; glancing around, she stepped inside and descended into the depths of the ship.

The ship hands were all down here, shifting crates and hauling boxes; most of the cargo had been taken already, but there were a few boxes left to shift. She singled out one worker, farther from the pack, and crept towards him.

The man found himself against the wall in moments. There was a sharp shock and he felt blood pooling in his mouth.

'That was just a warning,' a voice said. 'You're gonna tell me what I want to know, or there's gonna be a lot more like that.' The worker opened his eyes. There was a young woman pinning him by his collar to the wall of the ship, her free hand raised in a threatening fist. Her skin was brown and her hair fell down her back and spilled over her shoulders in long black curls.

'Who are you?' the man stuttered.

'You don't need to know that,' she said. Her fist connected with his face and he squealed as his nose burst, a ribbon of blood dribbling over his lips.

'First question,' she said, leaning in close. 'Where's Wilson Fisk?'

 


	5. Keeping Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony worries over his ties with Stane as Steve gets ready to chase down the gangsters. Meanwhile, the British Military seem to be moving in on the mob in New York; Commissioner Van Dyne investigates after Kelsey Leigh of special branch approaches her.

**August 1921**

Steve Rogers found himself sitting in the Commissioner's office once more, the second time in just a few weeks. Janet stared at him warily; he reclined in the chair and stared around the room, waiting for her to speak.

'I'm not seeing a lot of progress,' she said eventually. 'Where are you with the rumrunners?'

'We're pursuing a coupla lines,' Steve replied. 'Don't worry commissioner, Tony's working on the cars, in a day or two he'll be finished and we'll be able to match them, or better.'

'And that's your plan? To run them down on the streets of New York? Forgive me if I sound sceptical, Captain, but-'

'That's only the first part,' Steve countered. 'We can't expect to catch the big fish that way. But I hope we can draw them out if we take out a few of the small-fries, make 'em nervous.'

'And that's the whole plan? There's a lot resting on hope here, Captain Rogers.'

'There's more to it than that. But that's what I can tell you right now, Commissioner. I'll update you as we make our move.' Steve stood and opened the door without waiting to be dismissed.

'I hope you realise you can trust me, Captain,' Janet called after him. He paused in the doorway for a moment, shoulders tense, but he marched out of the room without another word.

It was another hour before there was a knock on her door; Janet called for them to come in, and the door opened.

'Commissioner?'

Janet looked up at the unfamiliar voice. There was a prim young woman in the doorway, wearing a military uniform of sorts, but the thing which most stood out was the scar which ran from her forehead all the way down to her chin. She stared at Janet, waiting for a confirmation.

'That would be me,' Janet replied. 'What seems to be the matter?'

'Nothing as such,' the woman replied. 'I just thought I'd introduce myself; Kelsey Leigh, British Military. I'm here to look through the criminal records, we're after an international criminal and it's become rather an urgent matter.'

'So urgent that the military has been called in?' Janet stared down the woman.

'I'm special branch,' she replied. 'While this man is wanted by the New York Police Department, I'm afraid he is needed in England for questioning, and the international matter of his capture has forced our covert operations into play. I am here to give my contact information necessary for this man's capture, and I need the cooperation of your department to do so! Are we clear, Commissioner?'

For a long time the two of them just stared at each other. But it was Janet who broke first. She sighed and put her head in her hands.

'Go on,' she said eventually. 'Go down to reception, get a visitors pass and tell the boys in evidence that you're there to look over the records. They won't be happy about it, but you've got my say-so.'

Kelsey thanked her and left, and Janet was left alone once more.

-

Steve made his way downstairs to the garage. Tony was working on the cars, he could hear the furious hammering and scraping of metal on metal from halfway across the ground floor.

'What are you doing in here?' he cried as he entered. 'It sounds like you're torturing someone!'

'Would that I were, Captain,' Tony replied, shutting off the angle grinder he'd been using. 'If Stane were in here, that's exactly what I'd do.' Steve searched his face for humour and found none; his smile died.

'You know we're going to get him, Tony,' he said quietly. 'I'm just as much after his blood as you are. But we've gotta move slowly; we go too fast, he's gonna suspect. And that's not a good thing. Pepper's safe, right? She's got protection now?' Tony nodded and Steve sighed.

'I know,' Tony said. 'I'm working both sides, I gotta keep it under control. What, you don't think I'm trying? There's a lot happening Steve, if I get this wrong, make a bad call out there, people will die. I could be one of them! I'm playing double agent, I'm on the front lines here-'

'And you're doing a great job, Tony, but-'

'I'm the one who's in danger if this all turns sour! Stane's got proof of my involvement with him, if he realises what I'm doing-'

'Then I'm the one he's gonna be tipping off,' Steve replied levelly, his hands on Tony's shoulders. 'Tony, I get it, you're in deep. But you've got help, and he doesn't know that, not yet. Give it another coupla days, we'll start running down his drivers, draw him out. If we force his hand things will get tough for you, but I'll get you out of there.'

'Can you promise that, Rogers?' Tony asked. 'Can you really?' There was anger in his eyes, but something more. Steve saw them widen, and he grimaced. He nodded.

'I promise, Tony,' he replied. 'Things get tough, I'll get you out of there myself.'

-

In two days the cars were gleaming. Steve stared at them, wide-eyed and grinning as Tony smirked.

'That's just for show, of course,' he said. 'The real work happens under the hood.' He levered open one of the engine covers and gestured to the gleaming, pumped up engine underneath.

'I've made it twice as big and twice as fast,' he announced. 'This thing will hit sixty easily, and then some! We've got the edge in speed now, but we've also got the edge in strength: some of these old body panels were beaten up, I had to make new ones. They're tougher, almost as light too. Captain Rogers, we've got a coupla big old battering rams right here!'

'That's good,' Steve said. 'Really good. Although I hope it won't come to that. We'll hit them tonight, I've got a driver for one car.'

'Just one?' Tony asked. 'What about the other?'

'Tonight's a trial run,' Steve said. 'It'll be me, the driver, maybe Clint too, if he's around. You haven't seen him recently, have you?'

'Not since I last visited the factory,' Tony said. 'Who's the driver?'

-

'Will you do it, Sam?' Steve's voice had an edge of pleading to it; Sam shook his head.

'I couldn't,' he said. 'I'm here to help you out, but you're talking sixty miles per hour at least; that's insane, Steve, I've never driven anything that fast!'

'Few people have,' Steve replied. 'I need someone who knows how to drive and who learns fast. If Buck were here, well... that'd be a different story. But we need a driver, and you're the only other guy I trust to do that. Things are getting bad again, I've been away six months and the gangs have gotten away with so much! We've gotta work fast, and that means fast drivers!'

'You're asking a lot, Steve,' Sam warned. 'I got outta this life, I can talk to people for you but you're asking me to get involved. These people want to kill me anyway, you really want me running them down too?'

'Surely they can't want you dead any more than they already do.' Sam turned at the sultry voice. Natalia stood in the doorway of Steve's office, smiling at him.

'We need a driver,' she said, entering the room. 'I hear you're good. Care to prove it?' Sam stared at her, and then glared at Steve.

'That's low, Rogers,' he muttered. 'Real low.' He sighed, and turned to her.

'Alright,' he said. 'Supposing I do drive tomorrow night. Who's gonna be coming with me? We find a runner's car, we've gotta take it down.'

'I'll ride with you,' Steve assured him. 'Who else do you want?'

They made a list. Tony and Natalia were out; they were still with the mob, it'd be a mark against them being seen running down their own men. That just left one person.

'Clint,' Sam said. 'Are you sure? I mean, he's not exactly top-notch when it comes to brains. Or brawn.'

'He's a good man, Sam,' Steve argued. 'You'll see, he's useful to have around.'

'Not tomorrow,' Sam said. 'We go light – if things go wrong, I don't want another person throwing a gun around to make it difficult. You and me, that's it.'

'Fine,' Steve said. 'You and me. But you're driving.'

-

It took two days for her to be noticed, and by then she'd found what she needed.

'Ms Leigh, you're gonna have to come with us,' the officer who'd let her into the evidence room said. So she'd kicked him in the head and taken his gun, cuffing him in the evidence room and walking out calmly. She knocked out the next guy too, just to be sure.

No one stopped her as she left the building, a plain brown envelope tucked under her arm, nor did they try as she hailed a cab and left for Hell's Kitchen.

The place was quickly becoming an epicentre for police and gang squabbles, she noticed; every day now there were gunshots and shouts, police sirens wailed past, the cabbie was nervous about taking her farther than the outskirts.

'A pretty girl like you, I mean,' he said nervously, blushing. Kelsey thanked him but said that she'd be fine, if only he would go to the address she'd given him.

It was a nondescript apartment building in Hell's Kitchen, one of many like it on the street; on the ground floor was a greengrocers which sold fresh fruit and veg, straight from the docks. Kelsey got out and thanked the driver, paying him a little extra for his troubles. He sped off, relieved to be out of there, and Kelsey made her way into the greengrocers.

'Sorry miss,' the burly man told her. 'We're closed for the night.'

'Would this change your mind?' she asked, handing him a wad of bills. He looked at it hesitantly for a moment, then nodded and led her to the back.

She knocked him out too.

There was a narrow staircase which led down into an expansive basement, as usual. Another speakeasy, full of the usual patrons; the chatter died down as the woman in the military uniform descended the stairs. There were a couple of wolf whistles in the silence as she walked up to the bar and ordered a drink; the chatter resumed, slowly, and a lot quieter too. There were many glances fired in her direction in between hushed whispers.

'Did you have to come here in that getup?' Kelsey was joined by a young woman, her black hair a mass of curls which fell down her back.

'You said it was urgent,' Kelsey replied. 'And I didn't exactly have much time; the police were on me just as I found it. At least I didn't have to smuggle it out. What, did your usual channels fail you?'

'Fisk has his men wrapped around his finger,' she replied. 'They'd rather die than rat on him; a lot of them did.'

'Your methods are too crude, Ms Chavez,' Kelsey chided. 'You ought to learn to use a bit more subtlety.'

'Says the woman who came in here in a military uniform,' Chavez replied. 'We should probably move before the police find you.'

'They won't,' Kelsey said. 'I wasn't followed, I made sure of that.'

'Really?' Ms Chavez said. 'Then who are they?'

Kelsey turned to the doorway and gasped. Commissioner Van Dyne had just entered the room, flanked by another woman in a military uniform.

'Who's that?' Chavez asked. 'Why is she wearing the same uniform as you?'

'I rather think she's someone who's actually  _ in _ the British Military,' Kelsey replied. 'Come on, we've gotta get out of here!'

'How? There's only one exit!'

'We cause a distraction!' Kelsey said, drawing back her glass. She threw it to the far side of the room, where it smashed satisfyingly against the wall above a patron's head. He threw a dirty look over at the bar, where the two of them had already moved, and threw his own glass back; it shattered against the mirror, causing the people at the bar to duck and turn. They moved over to the tables where a punch-up was already beginning with the man who'd thrown the glass and his friend next to him.

The distraction worked, at least momentarily; Commissioner Van Dyne and her associate moved over to the table and broke up the fight quickly, by which time Kelsey and her friend were at the stairs. But the soldier was quicker than them; she turned and spotted them as they began up the steps, and tugged Janet away from the fray to follow.

'They're still after us!' Chavez cried.

'What, you thought it would be easy?' Kelsey argued. The greengrocer was on his feet at the top of the stairs, clutching his head. Kelsey knocked him out again and they were through, onto the street once more.

'We've gotta get rid of them!' Kelsey cried. 'Come on!'

'You're not going anywhere!'

Kelsey turned. Janet was at the top of the stairs, a gun pointed at Ms Leigh. The military woman walked past her and drew her own gun.

'You're under arrest,' Janet stated. 'Ms Carter informs me that you're not a soldier from the British Military, you're an upper-class teacher from Ipswich!'

'I understand your anger,' Kelsey broke in quickly, hands raised. 'But I have good reason for the ruse!'

'Not good enough,' Janet retorted. 'Ms Carter, arrest her.'

'Gladly,' the soldier marched up to Kelsey and swung her fist back, ready to strike.

A barrage of bullets stopped her. A car had pulled up outside the speakeasy and the mobsters inside had noticed the uniforms. It was a matter of a moment for them to aim their guns and fire.

Kelsey dragged the soldier behind a stack of fruit crates as the bullets whizzed overhead. She drew the gun from her waistband.

'I hope you brought yours along too,' she snapped at Ms Carter. Raising her head, she aimed and fired off a shot as they reloaded. It pinged against the car harmlessly and they concentrated their weapons on her as she shrieked and ducked behind the crates again.

'That's not how you shoot!' Carter yelled. She stuck the gun above the crates and fired blindly. There was a scream and a screech of tyres, and when they risked a look the car had gone.

'What's your name?' Kelsey asked, standing.

'Carter, Peggy Carter,' the woman said. 'You never learned to shoot, I take it?'

'Swords are more my thing,' Kelsey replied. 'Speaking of which...' She tore a plank from the fruit box and swung it at Peggy, knocking her to the floor. There was a gunshot which tore the plank in half and she turned, ready to fight. Janet was aiming at her, eyes wide with anger.

'Ms Leigh,' she said levelly. 'You've got two options: either you run, and I shoot you in the back; or you try to fight, and I shoot you in the front. Which is it gonna be?'

'How about I tell you what we're after?' Kelsey asked, dropping the plank.

'See, you and me,' America broke in, 'we're on the same side. We're all after one thing here: Justice.'

'Prove it,' Janet said. 'Come with me.'

'Now?' America asked. 'But we're so close!'

'Close to what?' That was Peggy, sitting up and clutching her head. 'You know, you've got a really mean swing there!'

'Sorry,' Kelsey said. 'But I had to stop you from following me again. See, we're all after one thing, and I think we can help you.'

'But we can't work with you,' America said. 'For one, I'm an illegal immigrant, and she's impersonating an officer. Plus, our methods are a little... unconventional.' Slowly, Janet lowered the gun.

'Actually,' she said, 'you might be just what we need. Go on, Ms Leigh; tell us what you're after.'

'I'm after the man who killed my family and gave me this scar,' she said. 'I'm after a man named Wilson Fisk.'

-

Clint staggered against the table, his pint slopping over the sides of the glass.  _ The regulars around here don't seem to like me much _ , he thought.  _ And I've been drinkin' with 'em fifteen whole minutes!  _ He grinned and raised his glass.

'Alright,' he said. 'So next round's on me?' They cornered him, maybe a dozen drunks in various states of drunkenness.  _ If these guys can suss me out I must be off my game _ ! He decided. He raised his glass, took a swig, and threw the rest over the nearest guy before throwing the glass at another attacker. Screaming, he launched himself into the fray once more.

Clint Barton didn't fight with any sort of finesse or strength, but he fought with fury. He burst with flurries of fists and feet, kicking, scratching and biting as he raged against the crowd. He wasn't ashamed to admit, people had lost ears in fights with him before. And teeth. Sometimes it was his teeth flying. The crush exploded outwards, nobody wanted to fight a man who didn't care who he hit, or where, and indeed didn't even need to care. Clint stood in the middle of them once more, breathing heavily, sweat standing out on his brow. They would regroup quickly, he knew, and as usual he'd fight again, and again and again until he was spent, exhausted, and then they'd win. He was the first to admit he wasn't great at fighting. But he wouldn't give up at it.

As luck would have it, that was the moment Pepper entered the room. She picked up a chair and swung it at a man who was attempting to flank Detective Barton; it caught him on the chin, sending him sprawling and breaking with a satisfying crash which distracted several of the attackers long enough for Clint to lay one out with a decent kick between his legs.

'Alright,' he said with a grin, 'who's next?'

'You had to ask,' Pepper sighed as the men split up, ganging up on the both of them. Pepper jabbed at them with the remains of the chair, stamping on one man's foot with her heel; he collapsed with a yelp and the circle grew slightly wider for a moment. Clint, meanwhile, had one man in a headlock and was throwing him into his friends, driving them back.

One of the men closing in on Pepper gave a yelp, and the three who were left scattered as Rhodey joined the fray. He threw the first man to the floor and knocked him out with a fist to his jaw before moving into the room.

'Clint!' he called. 'Which one's our man?'

'The one Pepper hit with a chair!' Clint yelled back. He had a barstool in his hands now, and was bringing it down on the heads of the men around him.

'This all part of the plan?' Rhodey asked Pepper as they hauled the man up and took him to the bar. Pepper groaned.

'I'm just lucky I didn't break a heel stamping on that guy's boot,' she muttered. 'Come on, we've got questions for this guy.'

'How did the fight start?' Rhodey asked.

'Clint said something wrong, probably. He tends to.' They drew a glass of beer from the tap and threw it into the man's face. He woke with a gasp and a choke, staring up in fear at the people above him.

'This is how it's gonna work here, pal,' Rhodey said. 'I'm gonna ask you a question. If you answer wrong, this nice lady here-' he indicated Pepper, 'is gonna break one of your fingers with her designer heels. Are we clear?'

'How is she-' the man began, but he didn't finish as that was the time Rhodey flipped him to the floor. Pepper positioned her heel above the man's first knuckle, just enough pressure on to stop it moving.

'First question,' Rhodey asked. 'Who owns the docks in Hell's Kitchen?'

'I don't kno-aaargh!' The man's answer was cut off as Pepper closed her eyes and stamped down.

'Do you know how much pressure she's putting on you in those heels?' Rhodey asked. 'Now, I'm gonna ask you again: who owns the docks?'

'We're not allowed to say his na-AAARGH!' A second crunch, a second scream. Pepper tried thinking of something else.

'Do I need to ask again?' Rhodey asked. 'Or are you going to answer us this time?'

'Fisk! Fisk! His name is Fisk!' the man cried. 'That's all I know, I swear! I'm a grunt, I only beat up guys who don't pay their protection money! I'm not high up enough to know any more, I promise! Please, just don't break any more of my fingers!'

'I'm glad he gave in after the second finger,' Pepper said. 'I never wanna do that again!'

'Tell me about it,' Rhodey said. 'Some holiday, huh? Tony would flip if he knew you were doing this. So what next?'

'Home for today,' Pepper said. 'For a start, I need some way to stop thinking about that sound; for another, have you seen Clint?'

'It's only a few bruises!' Clint protested. 'And a busted lip. And a black eye. And maybe I've sprained something, I'll get Banner to look over me at some point, but I swear this foot's acting up, and I've always had this twinge in my left arm, doctor says it's just psychosomatic-'

'See?' Rhodey said. 'He's fine! But a rest does sound good, you guys got a lot of fighting done.'

'Yeah, us two!' Clint butted in. 'What happened, Mr bodyguard? You decide to bring up the rear or something?'

'My job is to protect Ms Potts, I'm not here to fight unless I have to.'

'Spare me the moral code, soldier,' Clint said. 'We did good today, all of us. You got a mean streak running through you, Rhodey, I'm proud a'you.'

'It's been a productive night,' Pepper said. 'Come on, bodyguard; you've gotta get me back safely!'

'About that,' Rhodey said, and stopped. Pepper stopped too, and Clint paused to watch.

'We can't go back to your place,' he said. 'It's likely being watched, and we're gonna be pulling stuff like this for a while. We've gotta hole up someplace the mobsters won't know about – you got any ideas?'

'A couple,' Pepper said. 'But I've gotta go back tonight, just to get some stuff. I'll pack an overnight bag and we'll get out, sound good?'

'We've gotta make it quick,' Rhodey said. 'I'll call Jarvis, see if he's free tonight. He can drive us over there.'

Jarvis was indeed free, and he even agreed to watch the apartment's front door while they were packing things. Rhodey disagreed.

'You know Ms Potts better than I do,' he said. 'Help her pack, we can be outta here twice as fast.' So while Rhodey watched the door, Pepper and Jarvis gathered up some clothes, a bag of sundries and some bath products, and then Pepper booked two hotels.

'Jarvis,' she said, 'you're to go to one of the hotels after dropping us off near the other, check in and stay at least two hours. When you leave, make sure no one is watching the building, okay?'

'Yes, Ms Potts,' Jarvis agreed dutifully. 'Are you ready to go?' Rhodey was jumpy when they told him they could leave.

'Thank God,' he said. 'We've been here too long already, come on!'

'What happens if this all goes sour?' Pepper asks. 'If the mob are waiting for us?'

'Then Tony gets a Hell of a surprise when Stane comes to his office to kill him tomorrow,' Rhodey said.

The roads around the apartment building were empty, and there were no lights in the windows of the buildings nearby. Rhodey breathed a sigh of relief as the car turned the corner and they were soon away. Jarvis dropped them off near their hotel and they sat at the bar for ten minutes before checking in.

'Jarvis ought to be checking in just about now too,' Rhodey said. 'I guess now's as good a time as any.'

The room was pleasant, simply furnished with two single beds, and Rhodey gladly took off his coat and shoes before sitting on the bed.

'So that's step one,' he said. 'Now we've gotta wait for Clint to give us the go ahead, he'll find out all he can about this Fisk guy before we can do anything.'

'Good,' Pepper said, collapsing onto the other bed. 'I think we can call it a night then.'

-

Sam revved the engine tentatively. It snarled excitably and he gripped the steering wheel tighter. Steve sat next to him, gun in hand.

'You're really gonna be waving that around?' Sam asked. 'This is the first trip out for this thing, remember.'

'Well I gotta make sure it's safe to shoot out of,' Steve said with a grin. Tony's face appeared at the driver side window.

'I think I've got everything hooked up right,' he said, 'but if the brakes don't work just let me know, I'll fix them when you get back in. Oh, and I might have added a coupla new features which might come in handy.'

'Or they might kill us,' Sam said. 'You ever driven at sixty miles per hour before, Tony? I think you should try it.'

'I might,' Tony said, 'when I can drive a police vehicle without the mob gunning down everyone I know and love.'

'Maybe ask if you can drive a mob car,' Sam said, revving the engine once more. 'Where are we going?'

'Take us into Hell's Kitchen slowly,' Steve said. 'We don't want them to suspect anything except an ordinary police cruiser. When they try to outrun us, that's when we get the lead out.'

'That's if we see anyone,' Sam said. 'I'm really hoping we don't see anyone,' he added sourly.

'I kinda hope we do,' Steve replied. 'Now come on; let's see what this baby can do!'

Sam sighed and gunned the engine, sending the car roaring down the garage spitting fire. They sailed up the ramp and turned easily out into the street.

Tony watched them go, a mixture of pride and regret on his face. Idly, his hand found its way to his apron, where a bottle of whiskey nestled in the top pocket.

'Good job, Tony,' he muttered to himself. 'Good job.' He took a swig of alcohol and closed the garage door.

 


	6. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janet, Kelsey, America and Peggy join forces to hunt down a point of contact for Wilson Fisk; meanwhile, Steve and Sam test drive Tony's tricked-out police cruiser as they chase down the rumrunners' mysterious new driver.

**June 1921** ****

'Why did your parents name you America?'

It was a question she'd been asked many times, but coming from Kelsey's mouth it did not sound so incredulous. She smiled, and it seemed as though it was meant with genuine curiosity. America Chavez blinked, startled, and had to compose herself before replying.

'I was born in the north of Mexico,' she said. 'There was a lot of American support for our mining industries, and my parents named me after the country which promised so much in the hopes that I'd find prosperity here.'

'And have you?' Kelsey's face suddenly serious, the scar running through the middle shifting like a snake around her mouth. America scowled into her drink.

'Not so much,' she answered. 'I came all the way up here because I heard New York was the place to be, but all I'm seeing is crime and corruption. What's going on?'

'Prohibition,' Kelsey explained. 'The sale of alcohol is illegal here now, so they open up these bars in secret places, wherever they can. Most of the cops are in on it, they like a drink as much as the next man, and of course they're all in the pocket of the mob, who're supplying the liquor. It's a mad system, but it seems to work.'

'Yeah, if you're rich. Dock workers gotta make do with the cheap stuff, not technically alcohol but it's got a real kick to it. Fermented fruit juices, things like that, y'know?'

'And yet you're in here, drinking with me,' Kelsey observed. America nodded.

'Yeah,' she said. 'Why is that?'

'I need help,' Kelsey explained. 'Of a very specific kind. Ordinarily I would go to the police, but I'm afraid the corruption is rather rife, and I have no need of their kind of help. I need some muscle, to get some information for me.'

'What sort of information are we talkin'?'

'Nothing illegal, just some known haunts of a particular property developer in the city.'

'What's the pay?'

'One thousand dollars on completion.' America sat in thought for a moment.

'I want five hundred up front,' she said.

'You can have one,' Kelsey countered.

'Three.'

'Two.'

'Deal!' They shook hands, and America downed her drink. 'What's the name?' she asked. Kelsey locked eyes with her.

'Wilson Fisk.'

-

**August 1921**

'The prohibition squad is focusing on Stane at the moment,' Janet explained. 'But it seems Fisk is the man behind the imports at the docks. It's an entirely illegal operation but we can't touch him, he's so elusive we rarely see him.'

'There's nothing in his file either,' America noted, flipping through it idly. 'The man's a ghost!'

They were sitting in another speakeasy, the day after their first meeting; the four of them had agreed to a truce of sorts, and they had decided to reconvene at a quieter location.

'He kills people, often for no reason,' Leigh cut in. 'The man's a psychopath, how is he so well-hidden? Shouldn't we be seeing Jack-the-Ripper-style murders everywhere?'

'We already are,' Janet said. 'He's got mob ties, remember? Maybe what we're seeing isn't a lot of gang-related murder; maybe we're seeing one man killing in the mob's name.'

'But a property developer?' Kelsey asked. 'Surely he'd have some offices, a residence we'd know of, something! Why can't we just track him down?'

'Like I said, he's a ghost,' America said. 'The man's rarely seen, even in Hell's Kitchen. He has lackeys who do his dirty work for him. Hell, they even do his grocery shopping! He never comes out, not unless he has to.'

'I think we need some help on this one,' Peggy said. 'We need to draw out this Fisk character, and we can't do it by beating up his men. We need to find someone Fisk talks to directly; there has to be someone.'

'Agreed,' Kelsey said. 'So how do we do that?'

'I have an idea,' America said. 'I just gotta get back to the docks tonight.' She grinned as she told them the plan.

-

**April 1921**

Somehow, the sun was shining.  _ The forecast hasn't been exactly accurate these last few days _ , Peggy reflected as she discarded her umbrella in the overflowing stand at HQ. She greeted the orderly at the desk and asked if any orders had been left for her.

'Oh! Didn't your aide give them to you?'

'My  _ what _ ?'

Colonel Phillips took the news with his usual stoicism, barely pausing to look up from his paperwork.

'Do we know who took the orders?' he asked, scanning a page half-heartedly.

'Someone called Leigh,' Peggy said. 'Kelsey Leigh. She told the orderly I'd asked her to collect the orders on my behalf, she had the paperwork to back it up.'

'Who do you think it is?' Phillips asked. 'Some plucky Hydra activists? German spies?'

'Well that's the thing, Colonel,' Peggy explained; 'we checked the records, and there is a Kelsey Leigh nearby. Only, well... she's a  _ teacher _ .'

-

Kelsey strode through the barracks, trying hard to look like she was meant to be there. Nobody looked at her twice and she did her best to keep her face hidden – the scar was rather noticeable. Her uniform was a little ill-fitting:  _ once I get to America _ , she decided,  _ I shall find a proper tailor to properly fit it for me _ .

Getting to America could have taken weeks, but thanks to the late Howard Stark it would take less than a day. He'd gifted this particular plane to Ms Carter's team as thanks, Kelsey had heard, for her services during the war; there was a lot of speculation around the camp as to what those “services” had been.

The plane sat on the runway, looking ready to leap forwards into the sky. The pilot was waiting for her at the top of the steps; it was a simple matter to convince him she was Ms Carter, and he welcomed her inside. A combination of indignation and a certain awkward charm – Ms Leigh had been married for a few years, charm had not been something she'd been called on to use for a while – was all it took, and she was seated and taxiing down the runway.

There was a lurch as they reached the end, coupled with a horrible grinding sound, and the pilot groaned as he strained against the controls.

'It's okay, miss!' he cried as he lifted into the air. 'The landing might be a bit tricky, though, felt like a wheel went!' A wheel! Kelsey grimaced. What rotten luck! It had been too long already, she didn't need more delays!

Down on the ground, Peggy lowered her gun and fumed.

'I really thought that would do the trick,' she muttered.

-

**August 1921**

It had taken her several weeks to sort out the paperwork for the mission once more, and another week to find a plane because the one Kelsey had commandeered was still in America, awaiting repairs after a hasty and messy landing. In that time, however, Peggy was already halfway across the Atlantic, on a small ocean liner bound for New York.

'It's where my mission is,' she'd told Phillips before she left. 'It's where I'm going. I can deal with Ms Leigh at another time.'

But she found it easier to find Kelsey Leigh than she did Wilson Fisk, and it seemed Ms Leigh would be the one to find out where Fisk was.

'Is this really the plan?' Peggy asked Kelsey as they approached the docks. Janet was hanging back, just in case someone recognised her, and America was rushing ahead, eager to leap in.

'It's America's plan,' Kelsey said. 'And it sounds pretty good to me. All we have to do is cause a distraction at the right time.'

'When Ms Chavez gives the signal, I know,' Peggy sighed. 'But there's no escaping the fact: there's only four of us, against whatever forces the mob are using to guard their imports.'

'The main imports are through for the week,' Kelsey said. 'They'll be getting small lots from Russia at the luxury docks for the rest of the week; we've been watching them for some time now.' Peggy had to admit, it seemed sound enough.

They stopped in the shadow of a building opposite as a car rattled into the docks. It stopped, and a man stepped out and stood in the middle of the road leading down to the waterfront.

'Is that Fisk?' Peggy asked. Kelsey shook her head.

'He's too tall,' she said. They stared for a moment, perplexed, and then Janet walked past.

'It's Stane!' she hissed at them. 'We need to abort!'

'No can do!' Kelsey replied, breaking cover and keeping pace with Janet. 'America's already in there.'

Peggy watched them go, then turned back to Stane. She had a shot;  _ I could take him out right now _ , she thought,  _ save the NYPD some trouble _ . But that... that didn't seem right. Stane was making himself a target? That couldn't be! Why was he waiting there?

Something was happening further down the docks, she couldn't see what. And Kelsey and Janet had gone off somewhere, they were all but out of the picture now.  _ Looks like it's you and me, Ms Chavez _ , she thought.

Kelsey and Janet hadn't gone far; as soon as they had been able, they'd turned down a side street by the docks. Janet spotted a ladder up to the roof of a low brick building and pointed it out to Kelsey. She made a stirrup with her hands and lifted her up.

'I'll see you up there!' she hissed as Kelsey began to climb unsteadily.

There was a door around the corner; Janet took a hairpin from her purse and jammed it into the lock, fiddling until it clicked open. In less than a minute she was inside and heading up the metal stairs to the upper floor. There was a big window which swung open at her touch, around the back of the building again; she called to Kelsey as loudly as she dared.

'Help me up!' she whispered, reaching out with her hands. Kelsey grabbed her wrist and pulled her up until she was able to clamber onto the roof by herself.

'Nicely done!' Janet said. 'What have I missed?'

'Something's going on at the end of the dock,' Kelsey said. 'A boat's pulled up, it's small but it looks like someone important is on board.' They both crouched against the lip of the roof and peered out over the dock. Janet could see Stane clearly. America was still nowhere to be seen.

She was closest to the docks, in fact, and had a clear view of the people who were stepping off the boat. The first was a typical mob enforcer, big and brutish and with a gun barely concealed in a shoulder holster. But the second...

He was a pencil-thin man with big glasses and perfectly-coiffed hair. He stepped off the boat and stepped carefully around the puddle at the dock's edge. Up the steps to the pier and straight to the big, bearded man standing there. They embraced and smiled, and then they were serious as they got down to business.

_ Is he gonna leave? _ America wondered at the bearded man. He didn't look the sort to hang around docks at this time of night; he was far too respectable for that. And there he went, in fact, ushering the thin man into his car and away they went, out of the docks. America sighed; she coulda had a chance! Except the big man was there, and he was bad news. She slipped out of her hiding place and slid into the shadows behind the crates stacked at the dock. Silently, she returned to the entrance.

'Shit,' Janet said.

'What is it?' Kelsey turned to her, concerned.

'It's nothing you need to worry about,' Janet replied. 'Look, here comes Ms Chavez, we should get back across the road.'

Kelsey agreed, and they slipped out of cover and back down the ladder. Janet locked the door quickly and they were back across the road, meeting with Peggy and America.

'I really thought he'd be here tonight!' America muttered. 'His yacht was destroyed just last week, I've heard nothing from him since! I was expecting him this week, I thought we'd got him!'

'Maybe tomorrow?' Kelsey asked, but Peggy shook her head.

'We're relying too much on chance here,' she said. 'We need to get him out in the open, we need a surefire way to do that.'

'There has to be  _ something _ ,' Janet said. 'Captain Rogers is working on something, but we haven't got the kind of time or manpower he has. And on top of that, we may become implicated in something if we come down here too often; one of his men was down here.' Kelsey started.

'So that's it!' she gasped. 'What are you going to say to them?'

'I'll likely tell them the truth,' Janet replied. 'What use would lying be?'

'Guys!' America snapped. 'We're missing the point! How are we going to get Fisk out in the open?'

'I have one way,' Kelsey said. 'The man who arrived at the docks tonight, I caught sight of him; he was with Fisk the night that he... the night that-' Kelsey tailed off, her breathing suddenly heavy.

'I'm sorry,' she said, as Peggy reached out to help. 'Please, give me a moment.' She stood apart, facing the wall and breathing heavily, trying to keep the tremor from taking over her body. Janet could see the sobs which wracked her shoulders.

'She gets like this sometimes,' America explained in hushed tones to the others. 'When she talks about Fisk... about the event. She's usually fine in half an hour, but I think-' she turned to look at Kelsey, her teeth digging into her lower lip. 'I think we should call it a night,' she said reluctantly. 'We're not going to get any further tonight.'

'Agreed,' Janet said. 'Besides, I need to get my story straight. Although I do wonder what Rogers could be planning, having his men out here so late. Tailing Stane, perhaps?'

'I doubt it,' Peggy said. 'Look, there he goes now.'

Janet stared as Clint walked alongside the chain-link fence, following it to the end of the docks and into the darkness, fading from streetlight to streetlight.

-

The goggles fit snugly over his eyes, and the mask kept the oil fumes from stinging his tongue. He sat in the chair and zoned out as the twins argued with Stane once more.

The thin man was new. He hadn't seen him before; through the misshapen goggles he looked weird, like a broken pencil. He spoke to the twins in Russian, but to Stane in English. Stane's Russian was a little rusty still.

Natalia was not in tonight. She was supposed to be. Stane was wondering where she was, he said as much to the man. There was something about the police too. They were doing tests tonight. The conversation turned to him; they should introduce him to the police tonight.

While they spoke, the other Russian worked on his chest.

He liked the other Russian. He spoke very little, and then only to his bird. If he had to speak to anyone else, it was instructions or a reason why he couldn't follow theirs. Stane had given him a design for the chestpiece; he'd said no. It was “inelegant”. For a brief moment, he looked down at the long-haired Russian, fixing bolts into place and tinkering with wires. He'd seen the designs; they had been inelegant. Especially compared to this. The Russian tinkered and worked, and the chestpiece fit perfectly.

'Drago!'

The man sighed and got to his feet. He turned to the other Russian man, the young one with bright white hair who was glaring at him. They exchanged words, the young one quickly, the older one sparingly, and it took Stane coming between them for the young man's ire to turn from him.

'He isn't done.'

That's all Drago had said. He isn't done. He looked down at his metal coverings. They shone like gold, the wires no longer poked out and were instead hidden under copper above a layer of insulating leather. And then above would be his suit, his leather driving gloves, and his funny little goggles.

'Stand.' The young one had ordered him. He didn't feel like obeying the young man. Not until his sister approached and smiled.

'Please stand?' she asked. 'We are in need of your services.' He stood; if they needed him, who was he to argue. They slid the suit over his armour and buttoned it up for him; how helpful!

'You are doing the world a service tonight,' the big one with the beard said. 'You will help the world, we are going to bring happiness to a lot of people tonight.'

_ How _ ? The word was forced out, in broken Russian – he had not had a drink in a while, but he did not feel thirsty.

'We need your skills,' the man said. 'Our drivers will be under attack by forces who wish to make the world a darker place. You will be one of the ones defending them.'

Defend. He was protecting them. Yes. He decided he could do that.

'Tell your men,' the young woman said to the big man. 'They need to know driver thirteen is ready.'

-

Sam stopped the car as they drew level with Clint, walking the other way.

'What are you guys doing out here?' he asked them. 'And what's with the slick new wheels?'

'We've always had this,' Steve replied with a grin. 'Come on, hop in the back. We might need another gun hand if things get rough tonight.'

Sam kept his eyes on the road as they sailed on, Clint reclining in the back seat.

'It's pretty roomy back here,' he remarked. 'You say Stark outfitted it? He got the good stuff with this leather here!'

'We're working right now, Clint,' Steve said. 'I want your eyes peeled, lemme know if you see a rumrunner pass us by.'

'Can do, chief!' Clint said. A thought seemed to occur to him. 'Hey, do you guys know what the Commissioner is up to these days?'

'Mainly paperwork, if I'm any judge,' Steve said, staring out of the window. 'Why?'

'Because I saw Van Dyne and a few other chicks hangin' out around the docks a few minutes ago. Weird, huh?' Steve was silent for a while, staring at his own reflection in the window.

'I'll ask her about it tomorrow,' he said eventually. Clint bristled at the resignation in his voice.

'The Hell you will!' he hissed. 'Just you leave it to me, Steve, I'm sure there's an explanation for-'

'There probably is,' Steve interrupted harshly. 'But we're here to do a job. This is something that can wait.'

'Speaking of the job,' Sam said hesitantly, 'I think I've just seen our first target. Outta that warehouse there!'

'Really? They've been slow tonight,' Steve said. 'Alright, gun it; we don't want them losing us immediately.'

'How fast does this rustbucket even-' Clint started, but his question was drowned out by the throaty roar of the engine as Sam gunned the throttle, and he yelped as the jump in speed bowled him back into his seat.

'Whoa,' he breathed. 'That's some kick in the engine. What are we doing, fifty?'

'Thirty,' Sam said. 'I was doing fifteen before. Damn!' They slipped into lane behind the black car which was doing a neat thirty along the roads, swinging around corners with a squeal of tyres before lurching down the street again. The cruiser kept tight to the corners, practically sailing around them.

'Handles like a dream!' Sam chuckled. 'You've outdone yourself, Tony!'

'Yeah, well it's not over yet,' Steve said, checking his gun. 'Wait'll they try to pull away, then give 'em a taste. I'll be ready.'

In the other car, the mob goons were freaking out.

'We're only doing thirty! This is crazy, they're keeping pace! At this rate they'll blow our tyre, we'll be gone!'

'What's this guy doing? Step on it, pal!'

'Get the guns ready, we're gonna have to blow 'em away!'

_ Calm _ . The cracked voice spat broken Russian quietly and evenly. They turned to stare at him as he handled the car with a rough hand, wrenching it around corners and skidding it through the streets.  _ Been a while _ , he thought.  _ Handles okay, but I've had better. Gotta... get my hand in _ .

Stay calm. He'd tell them that as often as he needed to, stop them going overboard. He felt calm, too; they might be keeping pace, but that was a police car.  _ They don't do more than thirty _ , he thought.  _ How do I know that? _

He gunned the throttle and pushed it to forty.

'We're heading out of Hell's Kitchen,' Steve said. 'Outta Manhattan too. Keep up with them, I'm gonna make sure they don't get too far ahead.'

'You wanna try arresting them tonight?' Sam asked. 'Are you crazy?'

'I might be,' Steve muttered. Aloud, he said 'Just keep on 'em!'

_ Calm _ . He said it again as the cruiser kept pace with the rumrunners' car. It was sleek black and bulkier than the police model, by virtue of the pieces the nice Russian man had bolted on. Turbo's and pistons and bigger pieces, for a more powerful engine. It made it front heavy, he felt the tail slipping out again. But this route felt familiar. He followed it, feeling almost happy. The chase! How it made him happy!

His foot pushed down on the pedal even more, the car's speed jumped to fifty.

'You're doing great Sam, keep it up!'

Sam struggled to bit back the retort on his lips and focused on the road ahead. The speedometer read fifty. Fifty!

'I've never done fifty before!' he yelled above the engine's roar. He hesitated to call it a roar; even at this speed it seemed to be purring. It leapt and barked as flame poured from the exhaust, jumping another couple of miles per hour.

'Steady Sam,' Clint said. 'That rear window's coming up close, at this range they could ID us.'

'They already know who we are,' Sam said through gritted teeth. 'Steve, if you're gonna give 'em Hell, give it to 'em soon; I dunno if I can bear to keep up around the corners!'

That was a blessing, at least; he'd seen the way the other driver was drifting. It didn't handle the turns nearly as well, they were catching them on the corners. He eased off the speed gently as the rumrunner turned and took it wide, squeaking up onto the sidewalk with a jolt before striking off on a collision course with the Russian-built monster.

'They're coming straight at us!' a mobster cried. 'Hey driver, get us outta here!'

_ Calm _ . He turned the wheel and they crossed the path of the cruiser, heading down a narrow alley to the right.

There was very little space on either side, and only one exit. The chase would be on once more, as soon as they reemerged. He decided to give them as much of a lead as possible.

_ Calm _ , he instructed again as he pushed the throttle up to sixty.

'Push it, Sam!' Steve ordered. 'That's some fancy driving, I wanna talk to these guys!' From the backseat Clint could see the grin on Steve's face, stained with sweat. This was the thrill of the chase, he remembered the feeling well. Only the last time he'd felt it, he hadn't felt so... scared? The look on his captain's face shook him; he opened his mouth to speak.

'Careful, Steve,' he warned. 'This is a new car; you don't wanna scratch it.'

'Yeah, it's a test run,' Sam said, pushing fifty down the street which ran alongside the alley. 'Maybe we should call it done.'

'No,' Steve said. 'Hit sixty, we're gonna catch them.'

'Why did you turn left?' the goon asked. Driver thirteen didn't flicker; the man was less than an annoyance.

_ Calm _ , he said again. The alleyway had scratched the paint a little but the car was still fine, still running. He gunned the throttle and they were screeching up to the corner. Behind the mask, he said one more thing, in English this time.

'Weapons left,' he hissed, the words thick through the mask.

It was like a well-oiled machine: windows down, guns out, aimed.

They burst across the path of the cruiser.

'Shit!' Sam ducked as the hail sprayed the windscreen, peppering it with chips but little else. All along the bonnet it scratched the paint but did little more than leave a few small dents. Steve just stared, and grinned.

'Wow! Nice one, Stark!' he cried. 'Come on, Sam, we've got 'em! Let's see what this can really do!'

'They're still after us!' The goon fired off another burst as it rounded the corner, to no avail.

'Are we even hitting it?'

_ Calm _ .

'You are really getting on my nerves, pal!' the biggest mobster snapped. 'Either get us outta this, or-' He never finished. Driver thirteen thrust his head out of the open window, followed shortly by the rest of him. He hit the sidewalk at sixty and just kept on rolling.

The cruiser swerved to the side as it came up to meet the body.

'Sorry, cap!' Sam cried as he struggled to control the drift. Suddenly the back wheels found grip, and the whole thing rotated around the mobster and rattled to a shaky stop. It balanced on two wheels for what felt like an eternity, before settling with a thump on all four.

'I had to avoid him,' Sam said breathlessly. 'I couldn't just run him over, that'd be... that'd-'

'It's okay Sam,' Steve said, watching the rumrunner's rear lights fading into the distance. 'I understand. You did the right thing.' The lights were gone. He closed his eyes and sighed.

'That's enough for tonight,' he said. 'Let's pick up this guy. If he's not a corpse, that is.'

There were three other mobsters in the car. They stared with a mixture of awe and horror at driver thirteen.

'Why did you do that?' one of them cried eventually. 'Hey! Hey you! You crazy bastard! Why did you throw him into the road, huh? He could be dead! Worse, he could be alive! He'll rat us all out! Hey pal! Why did you do that, huh?'

_ Calm _ . The man lapsed into defeated silence at the word. You see? We have outrun them. We have won. The chase is over. He felt a little disappointed at that, actually. It had been a good chase. Still, they had survived, and they would doubtless be back. But for now, he had done his job, he had protected what was important.

_ I have done well _ , he thought.  _ I have done... good _ .

-

**December 1920**

'See, it's not just how fast you can drive; it's how you use that skill that counts.'

Steve smiled, entranced, as Bucky spoke. They were sitting in his car across the road from a notable speakeasy, waiting for a mark to come out, only the snow was falling and the car was cold and in their coat everyone could see they were cops. He knew Bucky was gonna call it quits soon, but he was gonna enjoy it as much as he could beforehand.

'We can't keep up with them, but we've got the numbers against 'em,' Bucky continued. 'So, we talk. We keep tabs on each other, run 'em into traps, stop 'em that way. And I'm still the best at it. Thirteen stops, unmatched, and they've got maybe twenty cars left. The ones we don't total we keep; that's not many of course.' He chuckled and stared out at the snow a smile playing on his lips.

'The chase,' Steve said. 'It's all about the chase. Even if you don't catch 'em, you gotta give 'em Hell, make 'em regret crossing you.'

'Nah,' Bucky replied quietly. 'Nah, that's not it. I don't wanna ruin their lives, I don't wanna make 'em fear us. But they got into this, and it's our job to stop 'em, like it or not. Might as well not have that damn law, in my opinion. Givin' 'em Hell, that's not what we're about. But we've gotta let 'em know: we don't catch 'em, we'll get 'em next time. We might not want to, but we've got to. Because it's our job. It's all about the chase, but it's never about the fear. It's all about the calm.'

'The calm?' Bucky stared at Steve, and Steve grinned.

'You've never felt it?' he asked. 'That moment, when you're driving and it's not even about bringin' them down any more; when it's just you, and the feel of the car, and the road under your wheels, and the roar of the engine. When it's fire and oil and rubber and stone and you just feel so in-tune, like you can almost see how it's gonna play out! See, the rumrunners don't get that, it's all about pay and stickin' it to the man! - that's us, by the way – they don't get the calm. You can see it in their faces. When they're in a stripped-out model-T and they look back and they see you keeping pace in a Stark special – Oh man, I wish we coulda got more than one a'these, but Tony's so much like his father – and you're not even looking at them, you're just feeling the road beneath your feet, it's like the car isn't even there. And they freak out, because how are you matching them turn for turn and you're not even caring about them, and then they freak out more when you slow down because you can feel it coming up, the crash, and they don't know why you're slowing down. And then...' Bucky tailed off, suddenly sad. Steve's brow creased, and he nudged his partner.

'And then?' he asked. Bucky stared at him, still grim, but he broke into a grin.

'I ever tell you about the only guy to outrun me?' he asked. 'He musta been just a kid, this punk, and he was sailing along the roads, I could just tell he'd found his calm. He was in the zone, even I couldn't keep up. He handled that car like a dream, one day I'm gonna find him again, and when I catch him I might just let him go, he's so good with those cars.'

'Just for that?' Steve asked. 'I mean, shouldn't you arrest him  _ for _ that?' Bucky laughed.

'You don't drive enough,' he said. 'When you find that perfect ride, you'll know what I mean. You'll drive it just like that, you won't even car what you gotta do, you'll forget you're even driving.'

'But really?' Steve was grinning too, now. 'Would you let that kid go just 'cause he's a good driver?' Bucky laughed.

'Nah, of course not!' he barked. He glanced at his watch and sighed.

'Come on,' he said, igniting the engine. 'This whole venture was a wash, we'll get our man some other time.'

He gunned the throttle and pulled out into the snowy streets, leaving a trail of black through the blanket of white on the road.

-

 


	7. Keeping Up Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Moonshine Squad starts learning who they can trust, and we begin learning about the months after Bucky's death.

**August 1921**

Natalia stared at Clint, eyeing him over her mug of coffee. He was the only other person in the office that day –  _ some police protection! _ She thought – and so far he had not stopped pacing around the room, muttering to himself.

'You have a problem?' she asked suddenly. Clint started, and turned to her.

'You could say that, yeah,' he said. He relaxed against a desk and started tapping his fingers against it. Natalia pinched the bridge of her nose.

'The pacing was less annoying,' she said, shooting Clint a withering look. He bit his lip and stopped, muttering a quiet apology.

'What's your problem, anyway?' she asked with a sigh. 'Maybe I can help. Maybe.' Clint looked around the room.

'Can you keep a secret?' he asked. Natalia nodded and he swung a chair around and sat next to her.

'Okay,' he said, 'so last night, before I joined Sam and Steve for a test drive of the new cars, I saw the commissioner down at the docks. How weird is that? Only I don't think Steve trusts her right now, which means I've gotta ask her about it, but what if asking her gets me fired? What if she really  _ was _ helping the gangs and she's in deep with them? What if I have to pick a side, what if she thinks Steve's in the same position, what if-'

'Have you asked her yet?' Natalia asked. Clint shook his head. She gestured with her mug and Clint sighed.

'I'll go ask her,' he said.

Janet's first thought, on coming into work that morning, was to sit and think about her excuse as to why she was at the docks last night and to come up with something plausible but untrue, just in case Clint couldn't be trusted. But then she'd seen the mountain of paperwork on her desk and all thought of preparation had left her mind – Clint could interrogate her all he wanted, all he'd get was the truth.

There was a family here, one in deep with the mob, and their daughter had gone missing. They wanted to know if the mob had taken her.  _ They could just ask _ , Janet thought, lighting her fifth cigarette that morning. But she read it over anyway.

There was a knock at the door. Janet called Clint in.

'I need to speak with you, Commissioner,' he said. 'It's about... about last night,' he added tentatively when she did not speak.

Silence reigned. Clint bit his lip and his eyes darted around the room. Then, he took a deep breath, and the words tumbled out.

'Okay, so we're in a tricky position here; I saw you at the docks last night and you saw me, and I'm sure we're both wondering if the other is to be trusted, because I've not exactly been the straightest cop in the book my whole life, and you don't get to be police commissioner if you're an angel, and...' he tailed off under Janet's even stare. She returned her gaze to her paperwork.

'Mr Barton,' she said. 'We both saw each other at the docks last night, and we both had our reasons for being there. I do not doubt that you were there on some case or another, because your line of work is not just through my department. But if you wish to prove your trust to me and in me, I have a job you might be able to pick up.' Clint raised an eyebrow.

'I'm not here for a job, commissioner,' he said uncertainly. 'I'm here to make sure we can trust you.'

'Do you believe you can?' she asked. The air grew heavy.

'What were you doing at the docks last night?' he asked her. Janet sighed and shuffled the papers around.

'If you must know,' she explained, 'I was there with Peggy Carter of Special Branch from the English Military; she was sent here to detain a woman posing as an officer to gain intelligence through our database on a man known as Wilson Fisk; the three of us and our imposter's accomplice were there in a temporary truce, working to find some information about Fisk or his associates.'

'Fisk?' Clint asked. Janet nodded.

'Well that's a strange coincidence,' Clint continued, 'because I'm looking for information on Fisk myself. I might have uncovered something last night, in fact.'

'You might, or you have?'

'Why should I trust you with the information?'

'Why should I trust you? You've just told me you're not the straightest cop.'

'...point. Okay, I can let you know the name of the man Stane was meeting last night.' Janet's eyes widened.

'You got his name?' she asked excitedly. Clint grimaced.

'Not all of it,' he admitted. 'Stane called him James. But I'm running my own line of investigation, I think I can find out more information soon enough.'

'I want in on this, Barton,' Janet argued. 'I need to be kept in the know here, we're both looking for the same man. You find out anything, you share it with me. And I want to know about this investigation of yours too.'

'I don't know that I can,' Clint said. 'It's not out of mistrust, but there may be lives at stake if I let anything slip, and you've just told me you're helping a coupla criminals with this one. I don't know how much I can tell you.' Janet stared Clint down, but she saw the concern in his eyes.

'Very well,' she conceded eventually. 'Just... keep me up to date with your findings, okay?'

'Yes ma'am,' Clint said.

'Oh, and before you go, I have a problem which is in need of your own unique skills,' she added, holding up a piece of paper. Clint took it and read it through twice.

'If I do this,' he said at last, 'are we solid? You won't ask about my investigations? Will I have your trust?'

'You will,' Janet said. 'But I don't know if Steve can know about this. You might have to fly this one under the radar.'

'Like Barnes was the night he died?'

Clint's eyes were piercing. It had come out of nowhere, and Janet felt an icy dread creeping up her spine. She stared back at him.

'But I agree,' he added eventually, looking down at the notes. 'With their mob ties, Steve'll be looking for blood. Are you sure it was a good idea to bring him back?' he asked uncertainly.

'Ordinarily I'd say yes,' Janet said. 'But with Captain Rogers in his present state, I worry. He's looking for fights, and not the right ones.'

'We picked up a gangster yesterday,' Clint said. 'Cap's interrogating him right now. He was all bloodied up already, not much more he can do to hurt the guy.'

'Well go down there and make sure he doesn't,' Janet said. 'Dismissed, detective.'

'Yes Ma'am.' Clint left the room.

-

The big man lounged in the chair and stared around the room, the blood on his face long-dried. He knew the routine well, he was a veteran of the jail cell and he'd been in rooms like this before.

'He'll give us some meaningless names and go,' Steve said outside the door. 'I wanna try and get more out of him.'

'Just be careful,' Clint warned. 'The commissioner doesn't want you roughing this guy up any more than you have to.'

'Are you kidding, have you seen the guy? Hell, even I don't wanna try and rough him up; he'd probably faint in a stiff breeze.'

'He's still got all his teeth, somehow. You could knock some a'those out.' Clint saw the stern look on his captain's face at that remark. 'Okay,' he added with a sigh, 'maybe you just go in and ask him questions.'

'Damn right,' Rogers replied, before opening the door and stepping into the room.

The big man stared at him levelly as he took the chair opposite and sat down, leafing idly through a file. Steve relaxed and continued to read as the man grew impatient.

'What, did you forget this was an interrogation?' he cried eventually. Steve's eyes flicked up to him and then back down to the file. He scanned the pages and turned over to the next one.

'Alright,' the man said, 'lemme guess: you want names. I can give you names, but I want a reduced sentence for it. And I'm not speaking to anyone until I get a lawyer!' Steve smiled and put the file down.

'That's okay,' he said. 'I don't want names. Have you made your phone call? You get one phone call. Who did you call? Was it a lawyer?' The man blinked.

'Whadaya mean you don't want names?' he asked. Steve grinned.

'I mean I don't care who you're working with,' he replied happily. 'You shot at my car last night, you tried to kill three police officers and you were probably running moonshine through New York last night. I hope you called a good lawyer, because I'm just gonna send you down.'

'So what was the point of coming in here?' the mob man asked. Steve said nothing. He simply stood and left, slamming the door behind him. The man stared in shock and confusion.

'What was that about?' Clint cried when they were back at the office.

'I take it you were listening?' Steve asked. 'That's a bad habit, eavesdropping.'

'You didn't say anything to the guy!' Clint yelled. 'You just told him you were gonna burn him and then you left!'

'Yeah!' Steve replied. 'What, are your eyes starting to go? Come on, eagle eyes, tell me what you saw too!'

'I didn't see anything!' Clint shouted back. 'What do you mean, tell you what I saw? I saw you enter the room and then you guys spoke for thirty seconds and you left... oh!'

'Did you just get it?' Steve asked.

'Get what?' Natalia cut in. Steve turned to her and grinned.

'I thought I'd try something,' he said. 'See, he knows I can't do anything to him, but I know a thing or two about the gangs around here. And there are people who  _ can _ . And they will.'

'You're leaving him to the mercy of the gangs?' Natalia asked.

'Not exactly,' Clint answered. 'Something like that, though. Right, Steve? What was in that folder?'

Half an hour later, they returned to the interrogation room. This time, the man was perfectly compliant.

'You saw the file?' Steve asked. The man nodded, his face pale.

'Good,' he said. 'Because I've decided to be lenient. My colleagues and I, we're not gonna gonna press charges. You're free to go.'

'Oh no!' the man cried. 'Oh no, please no! Look, officer, I'll do anything you want, but don't let me go!'

'You know what?' Steve said theatrically, almost as an afterthought. 'I might even hold a press conference, thanking you publicly for your cooperation.'

'What do you mean?' the man asked.

'I mean,' Steve hissed, his face inches from the mob man's tearful eyes, 'that I know a lot more than your higher-ups think I do, and I'll pin that all on you if you don't give me something I can use. A name's no good to me!'

'I can give you anything!' the man cried. 'I'll give you whatever you want, just don't send me back to the mob!'

'I need addresses,' Steve demanded. 'Warehouses, garages, any address that's a front for the mob; I wanna know where the moonshine's being made, where the cars are kept, where the drivers drink! You got that?'

'I got it, I got it!' the man wailed. 'I'll give you anything you want, just put me behind bars! Don't send me out there again, not like that!'

He rattled off a list of addresses and Steve noted them down, smiling amiably the whole time. Once the man was done, Steve thanked him, took the file and left.

'Okay, but what was in the file?' Clint asked as he tried to keep pace with Steve on the way back to their offices. Steve grinned and handed Clint the file; he paled as he opened it, his hand covering his mouth.

'Oh God!' he choked. 'And this is all the mob?'

'We think so,' Steve said. 'The physicians are thinking it might be the work of one man, on the mob's behalf.' Clint stopped short.

'Really?' he said. 'That's an interesting theory. Um... I gotta go visit Dr Banner, I'll see you maybe in an hour?'

'Sure,' Steve said. 'Hey, can you drop that file off with records on your way?'

'I'll see to it that they get it back,' Clint said, hurrying off.  _ But perhaps not as soon as you'd like _ , he added mentally.

-

Tony Stark's offices had been gathering paperwork in the days he'd been gone, fixing up police cruisers. The week had taken its toll – he could see his desk sagging under the paperwork as the assistant he'd put in charge sweated through it.

'Move,' he said bluntly, shoving the young man out of the way. 'You'll never get through it at this rate, you gotta prioritise.'

For the first hour he was throwing things into the young man's arms, sending him away to shred them or bin them, or he was filling out the necessary paperwork and dropping it into the out-tray. Tony Stark had gotten through life by thinking mechanically, in terms of need and want. He wanted, so dearly wanted, to stop and take a drink right now, for example, but he needed a clear office and space to think before he could relax. He was a week behind; that was a week of information he'd have to catch up on. What had Stane been doing, how was Pepper, what had Clint found out about the accounts? There were questions which needed answering.

But first, the paper. He approved the front page for the national paper – it was another Urich piece, dark stuff dredged up about this Fisk guy with mob connections, the people loved it – and went through the local papers, tweaking columns or calling in the reporters to go over the material. There were a lot of papers to go through, he had practically half the papers in New York state plus a couple of international rags to get to print.

'And it turns out my assistant isn't up to the job!' Tony sighed, exasperated. Big Donnie stared at him and nodded.

'Seems so, Mr Stark,' he said. 'But I came here because we have a problem.'

'Do we, Donnie?' Stark asked, rubbing his temple. 'Because yeah, we do. We got a lotta problems. What's the problem we're having, Donnie?'

'Mr Stane knows about our deal,' Donnie said. 'He saw me just a few days ago, he was planning on killing me there and then.'

'So why didn't he?' Tony asked, pacing the room. The desk was a lot clearer now, he was pleased to see, and his assistant seemed to have got the hang of this whole prioritising business.

'I'm to keep tabs on you,' Donnie explained. 'While he tries to find Ben Urich.' Tony froze.

'He's after Urich? But the guy's my moneymaker! His stories sell papers!'

'He writes about the mob, Mr Stark,' Donnie said. 'He knows about them in detail, Stane doesn't know how. He'll likely torture that information out of him.'

'Urich?' Tony rubbed his beard thoughtfully. He grinned at Donnie.

'Nice work!' he praised. 'Go on, get outta here! I gotta have a staff meeting.' Donnie nodded his farewell and marched out of the room as Tony set about gathering the reporters into his office. He stood on the desk and stared out over the sea of heads.

'Okay,' he announced. 'Which one of you is Ben Urich?'

-

**Febuary 1921**

'Steve? Will you talk to me please?'

The hour was almost up. Dr Banner ran his fingers through his messy hair and sighed, eyes closed. This had been tiring and nothing had been gained! His eyes returned to Steve's form, squatting in the chair, coiled like a spring.

'Look, Steve,' he said. 'This isn't doing you any good. You look like you're ready to murder someone, bottling it up like this isn't healthy.'

For a long time, Steve just sat there. He didn't raise his head to meet Banner's eyes, not until he finally sat back and took a deep breath.

'What is there to say?' he asked. 'They killed Buck and no one else is gonna give a damn. Doc, I gotta get out there and find the guys who killed him, so I can get 'em back. Now are you gonna clear me or not?'

'No,' Banner said. 'No, I'm not. You've gotta try and recover, Steve. You're dwelling on this, it's eating at you and it's not gonna stop until you let it go. Whatever happened to professional detachment?'

'You don't get that,' Steve said, 'not when it's one of your own who died. Now give me the all-clear.'

'I can't, Steve,' Banner reiterated. 'You're unstable, there's no telling what you'll do.'

'You're damn right!' Steve snapped. He stood and his hands were suddenly pinning the doctor to the chair by his shoulders. 'There's no telling what I'm gonna do, and you'd best believe you want me pointed at the bad guys when I finally snap because otherwise I'm pointed at you, and anyone else in my way!'

He'd expected a scream, fear at least. But Dr Banner stared evenly at him, as though the weight on his shoulders was nothing.

'Corporal,' he said quietly. 'You are going to remove your hands from my shoulders.' Steve stared into his eyes; there was no fear there, but he caught the edge of threat in there. Reluctantly he stepped back, taking his hands back and shoving them into his pockets dramatically.

'Our time's up,' Steve said quietly. 'Guess I'll see you next week, Dr Banner.' They stared at each other levelly, each willing the other to break first. Finally, Banner sighed and rolled his eyes.

'You know,' he said, 'I'm your friend here. You can tell me anything. It worries me that you won't; don't you trust me?' The corners of Steve's mouth twitched.

'Say I don't,' he said. 'Say I don't trust anyone in this building; what then? Where does your recovery program take me?'

'Make a list,' Banner said. 'All the people you do trust. Trust they'll help you with this too.' Another momentary twitch on Steve's face; he smiled sadly and nodded at the doctor.

'Thank you, doc,' he said. 'Good day.'

The door clicked shut behind him.

-

The list wasn't very long.

Steve's first thought had been to write out everyone he  _ didn't _ trust in the NYPD, but that had proved to be a long list – now in the bin, the paper he held in his hands was much smaller. 

It had been harder staring at the blank piece of paper; once he got the first name down, the rest followed quickly, and he'd moved outside the NYPD and looked up some old friends.

James Rhodes; Sam Wilson (ret'd); Clint Barton (bent as he was); Tony Stark. That was the list. All people he could trust. Tony? Well, Barnes had had him wrapped around his little finger, he wasn't a tough cookie exactly. The rest, all cops, good ones at that. And there, at the top of the page, hurriedly written and then scribbled out as soon as he'd thought of another name to put underneath it: Bucky Barnes.

-

**September 1921**

'Y'know, Stark, coming to this place isn't any easier than the last time.'

'You seemed to manage it pretty well in January,' Tony remarked as Steve got out of the car. The antiques shop had a brand new front and stronger doors, and there was a bouncer on the door. Steve had parked a little way on the next street and they walked from there.

'You remember the plan?' Steve asked, ignoring the jibe. Tony nodded.

'Absolutely,' he said. 'Get in there, talk to the Russian contact, get out again; you'll be at the bar if anything goes wrong.'

The bouncer's eyes widened as he caught sight of Steve and he moved to block him, but Tony's hand came up quickly.

'Easy pal,' he said, 'he's with me.'

The bouncer greeted them both and stepped aside, the doors swinging open. Steve noticed the antiques dealer gave them a wide berth as they passed through to the staircase at the back.

'Do you know how long it took them to open up again?' Tony asked quietly as they descended. 'You and your pal really did a number on this place.'

'We weren't the ones who brought the bomb,' Steve replied darkly, pushing ahead of him and stepping into the room.

The buzz of conversation had never been as loud since the place had been rebuilt; nobody wanted to drink in a bomb target. Nowadays it was mainly the mob who convened there, and never the big guys.

'Stane has a few of his men who come here on their off-hours, but we're not here to look for them,' Tony said. 'The Russian's a man named Vlad, he works for Stane's partner.'

'Stane has a partner?' Steve asked, threading his way through the tables to the bar. People were beginning to stare.

'The person who owns the docks,' Tony explained, grinning at many of the people who were looking their way. 'But I can't dig up any dirt on them. We're looking for a ghost!'

'Why are we looking for them?' Steve asked.

'Because they're the link between the Russians and Stane,' Tony said, signalling to the bartender. He ordered them both a drink and explained as they waited.

'The Russians only visit Stane,' he said, 'aside from that, they're pretty much ghosts too. But there's a paper trail: our ghost owns a lot of properties in Hell's Kitchen and it just so happens that the Russians meet Stane in a warehouse owned by this guy. And now this contact is gonna give me a way in.'

'Even if he sees you talking with a cop?' Steve asked. The drinks arrived and he took a swig.

'Don't worry,' Tony assured him. 'He's been watching us the whole time. As far as he's concerned, you're as bent as the rest of 'em.' He took a wad of cash from his jacket and slipped it into Steve's hand with mock-stealth before stepping away from the bar.

Vlad was reclining on one of the expensive sofas which curled around the corner of the room; on either side, a beautiful woman smiling and laughing at the jokes told by the two men sitting next to them. Their eyes flickered to Tony as he approached, and they continued laughing and joking in Russian, although one of them drew back his jacket as he leaned back so that his gun was visible.

Vlad's eyes flickered open at the shift in mood and he sat up languidly, smiling like a Cheshire cat at the mogul. He nodded a greeting and Tony smiled easily as he sat opposite the men.

'The girls can go,' he told the men in English.

'No, no!' Tony said. 'By all means, let them stay; it'd be nice to have something pretty to look at during this meeting.' He eyed one of the women and grinned as she sat back down, her eyes locked to his. Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Vlad's momentary scowl before his brow cleared, and he coughed pointedly.

'This meeting,' Vlad said, 'this is different from your usual calls. What's up?'

'Nothing,' Tony said. 'Everything is fine. But Stane should know-'

'I don't work for St-'

'Stane should know,' Tony pressed, 'that the police have approached me as a known contact of his. I've cooperated, as far as they know.'

He tried to contain his glee as Vlad's eyes flicked to where Steve was still standing at the bar. His brow lit up with sweat; _now we're getting somewhere_ , Tony thought.

'What do you mean as far as they know?' Vlad asked carefully.

'So far it's all been misdirection and misinformation,' Tony said. 'A few vague answers, some forgotten addresses, maybe a face but no names, see?'

'I get it,' Vlad said. 'But Stane won't be happy.'

'Oh yes he will,' Tony said. 'Because I've got the head of the moonshine squad in my pocket.'

Vlad snorted; everyone had heard the rumours.

'Steven Rogers?' he laughed. 'The man's a white knight, he's in no one's pocket.'

'Wanna bet?' Tony asked. He turned and beckoned to the big man at the bar.

Tony had been speaking just loud enough for Steve to hear; he'd almost choked on his drink when he heard Tony spilling the truth to this guy. He relaxed a little as the conversation took a different turn; he'd wanted to laugh when Tony talked about bribing him.

And then he was being called over, and he didn't feel drunk enough to deal with this. But he took his drink and approached the table anyway; the Russian enforcers had their hands on their guns in a moment, but neither drew against him. Steve sat next to Tony, sitting up primly in his chair. He eyed Vlad cautiously. Vlad stared back at him, his hand rubbing his chin.

'You sure he's as bent as you say?' he asked, the glint of a threat in his eye. Tony opened his mouth to dismiss him but Steve was quicker on the draw.

'What?' he asked, grinning. 'You scared I'm gonna gun down your guys? I coulda done that as soon as I walked in.'

'You think that's proof?' Vlad scoffed.

'I guess you missed the cash he passed me when we got here,' Steve said. 'That's my cut for this little job; I tell you about the Moonshine squad, I get ten grand from Mr Stark.' Vlad's eyes widened. Ten grand?!

'But I do this,' Steve continued, leaning back in his chair, 'I want something from you too, Vlad.' Tony had to do his best not to stare in shock at the Captain. Instead, he avoided everyone's gaze and stared directly into his drink.

'You're trying to bargain with me?' Vlad asked. 'You're already getting a good enough deal outta this! Why should I listen to you?'

'Relax!' Steve said as Vlad got to his feet. 'I just wanna know what sorta modifications are on the rum runners' cars. I gotta have something to show the guys, right?' Vlad relaxed and sat down again, his eyes darting between the two men opposite him.

'Gotta keep up appearances, y'know?' Steve reassured him with a smile. Vlad nodded slightly, wiping the sweat from his brow with his hand.

'I... can't tell you,' he said. 'I work at the docks, I don't even drive the things.' Steve nodded, looking a little disappointed, but he quickly smiled through it.

'Well they can't say I don't try,' he said, grinning. He finished his drink. 'Whadaya need to know?' _Back on track,_ Tony thought.

'We need to know who your drivers are,' Vlad said. 'We need to know what sort of modifications you have on your car, we need to know who you have informing you of the Russian shipments and the gang movements.' Steve opened his mouth to say something, but Tony's hand was on his chest and his eyes were sparkling as he launched into a prepared speech.

'That's a lot of information,' Tony said. 'Now, I'm paying him for it, but in return I need to meet with Stane at his main garage; I've got an offer for him he's gonna want to hear, but I need to see his place of business first before I make a decision about it. Are we clear?' Vlad considered it for a moment, and then nodded.

'We're clear,' Vlad said. 'I'll make the call now. Afterwards, the Captain gives us the information. He can start with the Russian informant.'

-

**August 1921**

Natalia chewed her pencil as she stared down at the paper in front of her; there was a small stack of it, crammed with numbers and words in Russian. Sam stopped behind her as he was passing by with some papers of his own.

'So what's all this?' he asked. 'Police work?'

'In a manner of speaking,' she replied. 'I'm sorting out the orders for the week. When I'm done, I call my second and he relays them to the gang.'

'This is mob stuff?' Sam asked hesitantly.

'It needs to be done,' Natalia said. 'I have to keep up appearances – the gang need to see me as their leader or I'll be left without a gang at all. It'll be mutiny.'

'So, what? You give them your orders from here, they don't even ask where you are?'

'There's usually one of your men watching the docks,' Natalia said with a sly smile. 'I can come and go there, I know I'll be safe. Besides, I have to go home sometimes, my husband would miss me so dearly!' She put on a mock-pout at that, and Sam grinned.

'Not a fan of him?' he asked, pulling up a chair.

'He is a man of business,' she said. 'And that business is the mob. Even when he is there he is rarely there at all.'

'Well that sucks. No wonder you spend so much time here.'

'It's a wonder I can get here at all,' Natalia replied. 'He always has me followed, but I can lose them. One day he might get lucky, or smart, but he can't do that right now because I'm bigger in his business than he is. He needs me, even he'd admit that.'

'But you don't need him?' Sam stared carefully at Natalia's face in the half-light of the light above. She sighed, staring at the paperwork.

'Mr Wilson,' she said. 'Do you believe murder is necessary?'

'I'm a cop,' Sam said. 'I wouldn't say it's necessary, but sometimes you don't see the other options.'

'Do you believe there are any other options in this case?' she asked. 'To get out of a marriage I hate, a marriage made for power, do you believe I can do anything other than kill?' Sam stared at her face; it betrayed nothing. He sighed and got to his feet, heading for the small kitchen on the floor. It was less a kitchen and more a kettle and stovetop, plus a few cupboards.

'Ms Romanova,' he said. 'I don't know anything about marriage, and I know less than I think about murder. But I do know one thing.' Natalia smiled warmly as he returned to the desk with two glasses and a full bottle of vodka.

'I do know a drink every now helps with the paperwork.'

-

**September 1921**

Steve and Tony walked back to the car; of the two of them, Tony was the happier. They got in, but Steve didn't start the engines immediately.

'Come on, big guy,' Tony said. 'We gotta get go-Ow!' He flinched as Steve threw the wad of cash back at him, glowering at him from the driver's seat. 'What was that for?'

'What's your game?' Steve asked, not quite shouting but not far off. 'You set up to meet this guy, convince him I'm a bent cop, and then you have me spill my guts on everything going on at the offices. That wasn't your call Tony, you shoulda told me long before we got there.'

'Hey, lay off!' Tony snapped back. 'You lied your way through most of it well enough! What, this dude rattles you that much?'

'Stane rattles me that much!' Steve cried. 'The mob, the guys who blew up Buck's car, they goddamn rattle me, get it? If they even suspect-'

'They don't!' Tony retorted. 'And they won't. Sure, I told them about the cars! But that gets them off my back for a while, and it's all part of my plan! Trust me, Steve, you gotta-'

'No I don't,' Steve interrupted. 'I gave 'em Rhodey's name, I gave 'em Clint's name, and they're gonna find out I lied about the rest. What happens then? This wasn't your call to make Tony, and now you've put us all in danger.'

'I bought us time!' Tony said. 'I got a way in! We've got 'em now, you'll get all the information you need! You've just gotta trust me on this one, Steve.'

'No,' Steve said. 'I don't. You're not coming back to the precinct with me; I've gotta tell the others what the Russians know now. What they're gonna tell Stane.' Tony opened his mouth to argue, but the look on Steve's face stopped him. He scowled at Steve, then got out and trudged off down the road.

Back in the car, Steve took a scrap of paper from his pocket. Then he grabbed a pencil and crossed out the name _Tony Stark_.


	8. Can't Trust Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pepper and the gang make some headway against Wilson Fisk; while Janet's crew wait for the news, Janet makes Peggy a work offer. Tony argues with everyone.

**August 1921**

To his credit, Rhodey's face barely lost its colour as he stared at the folder. He closed it abruptly and handed it back to Clint.

'And you think this is Fisk?' he asked. Clint nodded.

'What... what makes you say that?' Pepper asked from her chair. They were in her office again, and she'd asked to see the folder as soon as Clint mentioned what Steve had told him.

'Well the attacks, they're all around Hell's Kitchen,' Clint said. 'I know that's tenuous,' he added, seeing the looks on their faces, 'but stick with me. It ties to a coupla things. First: none of the properties these guys died in were owned by the mob.'

'How does that tie in?' Rhodes asked. Clint snorted.

'What, you think this guy wants the red tape of a police investigation when he barely leaves his house? No, he's deliberately doing this  _ off _ mob land. Nothing to tie them to the place, it's only in Hell's Kitchen because... well, that's what I can't figure out.'

'They're trying to keep it contained,' Pepper said. 'The police hear about it, but they're corrupt anyway. Sure, they've gotta follow procedure, but as soon as they realise it's a mob hit they drop it. Outside Hell's Kitchen, too far away from the docks...'

'They couldn't connect it,' Rhodes said. 'Hell's Kitchen is the mob area. If it's there, more than likely it's a mob hit. The cops are in their pocket, they wouldn't even need to be told to wind it up quick. They get rid of the incriminating evidence, things are messed up, reports are filed incorrectly-'

'Exactly,' Clint said. 'But that's just the first bit.'

'And it's still not strong evidence,' Rhodey said. 'All you've told us is that these deaths have taken place away from the mob activity.'

'Not exactly,' Clint said. He spread some of the photos on the desk and pointed to some of them. Rhodey gasped.

'See the bruising on the arms and neck there? Well I think these bodies were moved.'

Pepper nodded thoughtfully.

'But how do we know where they were moved from?' she asked. 'Call me crazy, but if they weren't cleaning up the blood after murders like these, wouldn't Hell's Kitchen be swimming in red by now?'

'Well we've got a coupla choices,' Rhodey said. 'We could wander round Hell's Kitchen – bear in mind, two known police officers and the CEO of a very important company in mob territory – looking for signs of a quick clean-up, maybe some specks of blood. On the bright side, we'd have the best eyes in the business,' he gestured to Clint, who beamed, 'but on the other hand, we'd last maybe twenty seconds before we were shot full of holes.'

'What's the other option?' Pepper asked.

'If you're gonna suggest what I think you're gonna suggest,' Clint cut in warningly. 'I thought you were a straight cop, man.' Rhodey was silent for a moment, staring at the pictures.

'This guy kills other mob men,' he said. 'We could bait a trap, but it needs to be the right bait.'

'I thought you might say that,' Clint said. 'Look, I'm giving the Commissioner  _ and _ the Captain enough reason to distrust me already, hanging around with you guys. This is all under the radar for me; they find out I've taken this file, I might be in hot water. I don't wanna make it any worse.'

'Well we've got to do something,' Pepper said. 'They rattle Tony enough, he'll slip up. And then he's gonna meet Fisk.'

'You think Stane would do that?' Rhodey asked. Pepper stared at him.

'You think he wouldn't?' she asked.

-

**September 1921**

Natalia stared disinterestedly at Stark as he plunged deeper into the ruins of the engine bay, yanking out pieces of tubing and greasy metal pipes.

'That's the newspaper guy,' she said to Stane. 'You've got some hack writer working on your cars for you now?'

'He's made those engines twice as efficient as your man, Ms Roma-'

'He's  _ not _ my man, Stane,' Natalia interrupted. 'And if you do not cease business with those twins, you will find I am not a woman you want to trifle with.' The atmosphere froze a little between them. Stane's smile froze for longer.

'Ms Romanova,' he said through the taut lips, 'with all due respect, you're not running the army you were a year ago. And business is business, after all; a lot of your shipments are coming through the twins now, if they're threatening a coup, well I'll have one less business partner to deal with.'

'And if you supported me you would have two less,' Natalia replied coolly. 'But if you will not, I suppose I will have to pursue other avenues. I've been in contact with some men in Chicago, they're looking for runners with a more... certain future.'

For once, Stane's smile disappeared. He glowered at Natalia.

'You've been speaking to Torrio?' he asked quietly. Natalia's face betrayed nothing.

'Is that who runs this whole operation?' she asked. 'Because I've been speaking to  _ someone _ , and they've been worried about you! Why do you never call, Obadaiah?' She stared him down and, with a smirk, turned on her heel and sauntered out of the garage, leaving Stane dumbstruck.

Tony hauled himself out of the car and started cranking the new engine into place.

'You got some business problems?' he asked casually. Stane's head snapped around to glare at him, and Tony reacted with mock surprise.

'Oooh! Did I touch a nerve?' he asked. 'Y'know, I'm already starting to think this place doesn't have the job security I'm after.'

'You don't get to leave, Stark,' Stane warned. 'You work for me, remember?'

'Actually, we're in a mutually-beneficial partnership,' Tony replied. He grinned. 'Relax, Obi! I'm on your side; I gotta protect my investment, after all.'

Surprise registered on Stane's face, and then relief. He nodded grimly at Stark; the twinkle in Tony's eyes was enough to seal the deal.

-

'So what was the point of that little meeting?' Tony rounded on Natalia outside the precinct. 'What, did Steve put you up to this?'

'We'll call this testing the waters, Stark,' Natalia replied. 'I've got a gang to run; I want to know whose side you're on.'

'So you're not really here to help us out?' Tony asked. 'Is that it? You're here to cover your ass until the heat dies down or you can score your own gang back? And when  _ are _ you gonna stab us all in the back?'

'I'd love nothing more than to betray you,' Natalia retorted. 'If I had the evidence I'd sell you out to Steve before you could write it up in your papers. You're playing a dangerous game here, Stark, and right now I'm the enemy. Think about that.' She hailed a cab and got in.

'You might want to figure out what you're fighting for, Mr Stark,' she said before slamming the door. The car sped off down the road, leaving Tony in a cloud of dust.

-

Steve stormed into the garage, eyes ablaze.

'I thought I told you not to come back here,' he threatened to the pair of legs leaning out from under the car. 'What do you think you're doing?'

Tony slid out from under the car and scowled at Steve. He picked up a spanner and ducked back under the vehicle.

'Hey!' Steve strode to the car and yanked Tony out by the leg. He glared down at the man.

'I told you,' Tony said, 'I've got a plan. Right now that plan involves souping up your cars even more – I reckon I can get these babies up to eighty.'

'No,' Steve said. 'I told you: you're out. Get gone.' He picked Tony up by the collar and hauled him towards the door; he was surprised when an elbow in the side sent him flinching away, loosening his grip enough for Tony to slip loose.

'Damn it, Tony!' Steve snarled. Stark dived behind the car and stared at Steve from the other side of it.

'Okay!' he snapped at last. 'It was a really crappy thing for me to do at the bar. I know that. But I've got more than just you guys to worry about!'

'So that justifies you putting us in danger?' Steve asked, stepping towards the front of the car. Tony skittered towards the rear.

'No it doesn't,' Tony replied. 'But just listen, okay? You've gotta hear my plan, because it'll net you Stane!' Steve stopped.

'How?' he asked suspiciously. Tony breathed a sigh of relief.

'I'm in now,' he said. 'With Stane, I mean. I work in his garage, I work on his cars. I can make yours better, every time. You'll always have an edge. We're gonna force his hand.'

'Is that it?'

'There's more,' Tony said. 'But it's all a bit rough at the moment. And Natalia's just made it trickier; Torrio might be involved now.'

'But he's in Chicago!'

'I know! Natalia called him, maybe. She might've been bluffing. But I know she's working on taking out the competition in her gang. She might be making a move on Stane's business too.' Steve sighed and turned away.

'Stark,' he said. 'I don't care how hurt you are; you can't turn me against  _ everyone _ under my command just because you're upset with me.' Tony's mouth hung open.

'You... you think that's what this is about?' he cried. 'Now hang on a minute!'

'No!' Steve snapped. 'Whatever this plan is, it's not worth tearing up my team about! I've had enough, Stark! Now, fix up these cars and get out!' Steve walked away, slamming the door behind him. Tony grimaced.  _ Well _ , he thought,  _ it's a start _ .

-

**August 1921**

The car screeched on the slick roads – summer rains had not been kind to the city today, and these cars were going much faster than the roads had been built for. Sam yanked the wheel the other way to counteract the drift and then centred it as the car caught grip and found its wheels in line again.

'Keep going!' Steve ordered. 'We've got this one!' The driver was nowhere near as good as the man from the previous outing – he was panicking at the wheel, Steve could see the way the car was jittering under his control. All he needed was the right shot...

There! He fired expertly, but the bullet whizzed through the wheel spokes. He cursed.

'What I wouldn't give to have Clint sitting there, rather than you,' Sam murmured as Steve sat back and reloaded.

'Yeah,' Steve said. 'This chase would be done by now.'

'Actually, he sits still,' Sam said. 'Man, you're heavy; you move, this car moves with you!'

'Get used to it,' Steve retorted, leaning out of the window again. This time, no finesse; he fired six shots. One of them hit. The gangsters' car shuddered against the road and turned towards the pavement. The driver at least had the presence of mind to brake before they ploughed straight into the wall; instead, they only smashed a headlight.

Sam screeched to a halt behind them and Steve stepped out, reloading. He crouched behind the bonnet and pointed his gun at the car.

'Come out!' he yelled. 'Hands up!'

The passenger-side door opened and a burst of machine gun fire rattled from it. From his side, Sam drew his gun and fired through his window. The mob car's back windscreen shattered.

'No more warning shots!' Steve yelled. 'Hands up, outta the vehicle!'

More gunfire, only this time the car backed up too. Steve stepped onto the sideplate as Sam reversed and turned; as the passenger door met their bonnet, Steve fired two shots; a clean hit.

After that the operation was pretty simple: the rest of the mobsters got out of the car and Steve arrested them; they went back to the precinct with half of them in the mob car.

'Nice work,' Janet said. 'You're finally making arrests.' She smiled approvingly, but Steve only grimaced.

'They're not the big fish,' he said. 'Heck, we only had 'em on a speeding ticket until they shot at us. The driver's the only one we can pin anything on.'

'And the rest?' Janet asked. Steve shrugged.

'Release? Unless there's some booze in the car – I didn't get a chance to check. And if we  _ do _ release them, they'll probably be taken care of by that mob hitman anyway.'

'Well shit,' Janet muttered. Aloud, she asked, 'have you got another driver for the other car yet?'

'I haven't,' Steve said. 'Why? Did you have someone in mind?'

'I'm not sure yet,' Janet replied. 'But I'll let you know by the end of the day. I need to go and speak to Detective Barton, but this was a job well done. Nice work, Steve.'

'Commissioner?' Steve called as she left. She turned, staring at him quizzically.

'Tell Barton... tell him I'm sorry,' Steve said. Janet paused, unsure of what to say. Then she nodded, and left the room.

-

Clint threw a punch and was surprised when it landed, clocking the man square on the jaw. He fell and rolled, sitting in the dirt.

'Hey,' Clint said, 'I don't like this any more than you do. But I need answers.' The man spat blood and glowered at him.

'I'll tell Fisk!' he cried. 'I'll tell him you betrayed him!'

'Tell him all you want,' Clint said. 'I don't work for him anyway. Now, what's the name of his contact?'

'Go to Hell!' the man yelled, and grunted as Clint socked him in the ear. Then he was on his feet and Clint was pummelling his gut.

'Are you ready to tell me yet?' Clint asked, his breathing ragged. 'I'm not stopping until I get an answer.'

'Screw you, man!' the mobster gasped.

'Alright,' Clint muttered, sending another punch into the man's abdomen. He doubled over in pain and retched, fighting to stop himself throwing up.

'See, this isn't so bad,' Clint said, shaking off his arms –  _ it's been a while since I had such a workout! _ He remembered.  _ Maybe I oughta tone it down _ . 'What Fisk'll do to ya? Well, that's gonna be  _ much _ worse.'

'I'm not talking!' the man said.

'You don't have to,' Clint said. 'Fisk finds out I even  _ found _ you, you're dead. And you were a hard man to find – one of the Russians, why didn't I think of it sooner?'

'So he kills me, so what?' the man spat. 'You're still lost!'

'And you're still dead,' Clint said.

'But not for a while.' The man looked around at the new voice, but the light was right above him. He could see only the detective on the edge of the cone of bright, half in darkness.

And then, there was a pain in his head and he felt a hand grasping his hair. He grimaced and grunted as his head was yanked backwards; his legs were kicked out from under him, he was on the floor again. Rhodey's face appeared above him, backlit by the light. He moved the man's head so he was staring straight ahead, and Clint held up the first picture.

'Recognise this guy?' Rhodey asked. The man tried to look away, but Rhodey held his head forward.

'I... I don't know,' he managed between gasping breaths. Clint put the photo back in his pocket and took the next one.

'What about that guy?'

'There's no face there!' the man cried.

'No,' Clint said. 'But there should be.' He took the next picture from his pocket.

'This one?' Rhodey asked. 'Come on, that's plain as day! Even I know that one!'

'It's... it's...' the man couldn't speak. He tried to, but he was fighting back tears.

'His name is Anatoly Ranskahov,' Clint said. 'Well, it was. He's dead.'

'You know who did that?' Rhodey asked. The tears were already streaming down the man's face. He sniffed and muttered, 'Fisk.'

'That's right,' Clint said. 'Poor Anatoly. You want to help him out?'

'He's dead!' the man yelled. 'He's dead because of Fisk! I can't help him!'

'Then help us,' Rhodey said. 'We're gonna take care of Fisk – if you're there, you might get first crack at him.'

'That's your bargain?' the man asked. 'Are you asking to use me as bait?'

'All we need right now is a name,' Clint said. 'Then we were never here. Even your boss never has to hear about it.' The man looked away from a moment, trying to control his tears. He drew deep breaths amid whimpers, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. When he was done, his eyes were full of anger.

'Westley,' he said. 'James Westley. He's your ticket to Fisk; he has offices at 55 th and 10 th . He's not there every day, but he goes there at least once a week.'

He felt the grip on his hair loosen, and then the two of them were walking away.

'Nice to meet you, Vlad,' Clint said. 'I look forward to next time – I might not have to beat you up!'

'So how did you find him?' Rhodey asked when they were back in the car. They were outside an empty warehouse, one of Tony's failed projects which had since gone to waste. It was meant to be another printing press, but it had turned out to be impractical location-wise, so Stark held onto it while he tried to decide what to do with it.

'Actually it was Nat,' Clint said. 'She handed him over to us; he works for some rivals of hers in Russia, apparently; an informant or something.'

'You really think Fisk will kill him?' Rhodes asked, worried. Clint shook his head.

'If he's such a good spy, nobody will know he was here,' he said. 'He ought to be just fine.'

-

Peggy stood to attention in Janet's office as the commissioner regarded her curiously, but even her patience had its limits.

'What's this about, commissioner?' she asked eventually. 'If it's about Fisk, well we're waiting for more information about-'

'Can you drive, Ms Carter?' Janet asked suddenly. Peggy started.

'Yes, I suppose,' she said. 'Why?'

'Well, since the Wilson Fisk case has ground to a halt right now anyway, I thought you could help some of my staff with their work. They're chasing down the rum runners in Hell's Kitchen and they need a driver-'

'You want me to be a... a chauffeur?' Peggy asked, incredulous. Her hands balled into fists; Janet stared at her coolly before standing and walking towards the door.

'Would you like to come to the garage with me, Agent Carter?' she asked.

Peggy was protesting the whole way, of course.

'You can't expect me to just drive the boys around!' she argued. 'And what's this; you just want me to drive? No gun, no uniform, just a  _ driver _ ?'

'Agent Carter, if you're going to keep this up I'll reconsider,' Janet said, approaching the garage door. Her eyes fell sternly on Peggy's defiant face, but for the moment Peggy closed her mouth patiently. Nodding, Janet swung open the door.

'I still don't see anything special,' Peggy said. 'Why should I be your driver?'

'You're my new driver?'

Peggy turned. Steve was leaning against one of the cars, a cigarette in his mouth. He looked her up and down and stood up straight, sauntering over to them.

'Good news, Commissioner,' he said. 'We found a few crates of illegal alcohol in the gangsters' car; we've got 'em all on rumrunning charges!'

'Good work, Captain,' Janet said with a smirk. 'I'll leave you two to get acquainted.' The door slammed behind her, leaving Peggy facing Steve. The big man smiled at her.

'Military?' he asked. 'What are you doing working for us?'

'Waiting for some information,' Peggy said. Steve's eyes flickered downwards, and his face momentarily twitched with regret, but he recovered quickly.

'Yeah,' he said, 'one of my, uh... one of my guys was working on that for you. Have you met Barton?'

'Can't say I have,' Peggy replied suspiciously. 'I tend to deal with the commissioner directly. Captain, was there some point to meeting down here or-'

'How fast can you drive?' Steve asked suddenly. Peggy glared at him.

'Do you usually interrupt the women you're talking to?' she asked. Steve's face coloured immediately and he shrugged, opening his mouth to apologise.

'I've driven forty before,' Peggy said before he could say anything. 'That was an experimental model we were trying out, it was pretty difficult to drive apart from the speed.'

'Think you could handle sixty?' Steve asked.

'It's got to be easier than flying a plane,' Peggy said with a sly smile. 'I'll think about it.' She turned to go.

'Wait,' Steve said. 'Can you shoot?'

'I'm in the army, Captain,' Peggy said over her shoulder. 'It's the first thing they teach us.'

'Right, stupid question.' Peggy turned the door handle and stepped out into the police station.

'Can you do both?' Peggy stopped and turned.

'Both?' Steve nodded.

'Yeah,' he said, 'shoot and drive at the same time.' Peggy smiled.

'I've never tried before,' she said. Steve grinned.

'Do you want to?' he asked.

-

**May 1911**

Clint stood on the street corner, the last dog-end of a cigarette clutched between his thumb and forefinger. He'd been watching these guys inexpertly for several hours now – he was amazed they hadn't noticed him.  _ Ah, the benefits of being plain-clothes _ ! 

At last he discarded the cigarette on the ground and stepped into the street. He crossed the road, head down and hands in his pockets. All it took as he passed by the shop was just the right  _ step _ ...

'Ah, crap! I'm really sorry, pal!' He leaned down and grabbed the guy's arm, pulling him up again.

'Hey, you better watch it,' the suit warned, 'or... what's this?' He stared in shock at the cuff which had clicked around his wrist. Clint grinned and pulled the man down into a keeling position on the ground.

'I've been watching you for hours,' he said, clicking the other cuff in place. 'This is the fifth shop you've turned over today, buddy, what's your deal?'

'Madden's not gonna be happy with you!' the mobster cried. 'He'll kill you for doing this!'

'Why?' Clint asked. 'Because I took out one of his Gophers? I don't think so – he wouldn't mess with a copper. No, you're more likely to get the short end of the stick for this one. Trust me on this, you wanna plead guilty.'

'What if there was a way we both got outta this happy?' the man asked. Clint pulled him to his feet and dragged him down the road.

'Well I'll be pretty happy seeing you put away,' Clint remarked. 'And I'm sure you'll be happy not to be dead! We both win!'

'Not what I meant,' the man grumbled. He dug in his heels and refused to walk, forcing Clint to drag him until he was almost toppling over, kicking him in the small of his back to get him to move.

'What, no car?' the man asked. 'I bet I could get you one.'

'How?' Clint asked through gritted teeth. 'Grand theft auto?'

'No! Money!' Clint paused for breath.

'Stolen money?' he asked. 'Yeah, not happening. Come on.'

'It might be stolen,' the man said, 'but what if I offer you a cut?' This caused Clint to stop for a moment.

'Why would you?' he asked suspiciously.

'Hey, I don't like the inside of a jail cell any more than the other guys,' the mobster said. 'This way, I go free, and you get a nice car.'

'That's a little suspicious, isn't it?' Clint warned. 'What, I just get a new car one day and people won't question it?'

'Okay, so maybe not a car,' the mobster said, 'but you get a nice little cut of these profits, and Madden won't mind! Hell, he'll barely notice.'

'What's in it for you?'

'Like I said, I stay outta jail for a while longer.'

'And for me?' Clint eyed the man, an edge in his voice. The man smiled.

'How about: you don't gotta drink the cheap stuff for the rest of this month,' he said. Clint considered this.  _ Real alcohol? Not that switchwood crap? _

'I take you up on this,' Clint said, 'what happens then? You go free, I get some of this cash – cash you've got from protection rackets, cash that would be going to Owney Madden otherwise – and we both walk away happy?' The mob man nodded, grinning slyly.

'It's that easy?'

-

**August 1921**

Clint stared down furiously at Steve as the big man pinned him up against the wall by his collar. Steve's face was a mask of rage as he glowered at Clint, the folder splayed wide on his desk. Clint could see some of the pictures scattered over the surface;  _ I wonder if I'll end up like one of them _ , he thought.  _ Just another bloodstain. _

'You said you were taking it back,' Steve said. His voice was icy calm as he spoke, but there was a tremor in his arms which betrayed his anger. 'You told me you'd put it back.'

'I'm sorry, Cap,' Clint said. 'I'm sorry, but I needed it!'

'And you didn't tell me!' Steve yelled. Clint found himself released from the wall as Steve whirled him around and shoved him into the centre of his office.

'I couldn't!' Clint snapped. 'It wasn't police business! Not really!'

'You and Rhodes!' Steve roared. 'Both of you were in on this! That's two more people I can't trust!'

'Hey, shut up!' Clint marched forward and shoved the captain in the chest – he might have been small but the movement was enough to startle Steve into taking a step back.

'Hey, what-' he began, but Clint's fist came up right under his chin.

'Don't you dare!' Clint snapped. 'Don't you dare talk to me about trust! I know you've never trusted me, don't try to deny it!' He swung his fist again but Steve dodged, grabbing Clint's coat and shoving him against the desk.

'Of course I haven't!' Steve yelled. 'How could I? You were bent as all Hell, that's all I had against you! That's all I could use to trust you!'

Clint was not a good fighter, but he fought dirty. Steve grunted and collapsed as one of his legs went from under him, and Clint turned and kicked him to the floor.

'Prove it!' he yelled back. 'Go on! Show me how I'm bent! I've been on this force damn near thirty years and you're telling me I'm bent?'

'I know your type,' Steve grunted, getting to his feet. 'You're on the take, I can see it in your eyes, you go behind my back every day.' Clint stared at Steve, eyes wide with anger. And then, suddenly, he was downcast, collapsed against the desk in exhaustion.

'I'm tired of this, Captain,' he said. 'You wanna know something? I was first bribed ten years ago. While you were in the cars chasing down the mob with your pal Buck, I was an old beat cop still walkin' the sidewalks. I made the wrong arrest, the guy offered me cash to get out of it.'

'And what?' Steve asked. 'You've been on the take ever since? Is that how it is? Are you trying to convince me you're straight with that?'

'Hell yeah I'm straight!' Clint cried. 'I arrested him, he went down that day! But you can't get it outta your head that I might be a mob shill because you've seen me around in a few bars! Well why don't we go into Barnes' history and see where-'

'Stop talking,' Steve murmured. It was a loud sound in the room, which had gone deathly quiet and icy cold. Clint glared at him.

'You wanna know what I've been doing?' he asked. 'I've been working on another lead; Wilson Fisk, he's the guy who did that stuff in the pictures. The mob's go-to muscle man and the owner of the docks in Hell's Kitchen. But he's rarely seen, so we've gotta find James Westley, he's Fisk's mob liaison, does all the talking for him. There, that's what I've got. But it stays in this room, because Rhodey's involved and so's Pepper and Tony, and if the mob gets wind of this then they're all in danger too.' Steve stared at him, partly in shock, partly still working through his anger.

'Why... why didn't you tell me?' he asked.

'Why do you think?' Clint snapped. 'Because you can't get your damn dead boyfriend outta your head! You hear about this, you're gonna go all gung-ho and start asking the wrong people the wrong questions, and this is the big guy we're going after! I'm not getting killed so you can wage your war of revenge against the mob.'

There was silence for a long time. Steve stared at the ground, breathing heavily.

'Clint,' he said quietly, 'Clint, I-'

'Save it,' Clint snapped. 'I'm starting to think Van Dyne was wrong about you; we'd be doing so much better without you.' He left the office, slamming the door behind him.

When Sam called on Steve that evening, he found him sitting in the chair, staring at the blank back wall of the office, a scrap of paper in his hands.

-

 


	9. Little Leads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head: the twins grow suspicious of Natalia; Steve has reservations about his plans; Tony meets the man in his employ who's been winding up the mob; and an unwelcome presence announces their return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while hasn't it? I'm sorry, I haven't been able to write much recently. I actually had this chapter and chapter 10 pretty much finished before I left England, but I didn't want to post them until I'd written more. Well, that hasn't happened. I don't know when that will happen at the moment. But I promise two updates this month, and then at least one a month on the first of every month. That's the best I can say for now - thanks to everyone who reads and enjoys this work, and who continues to be patient and put up with my tired ass. :3
> 
> -Dork

**September 1921**

Steve had to admit, the cars were better than ever. Tony had done a really good job on them, he couldn't believe they could be improved.

'So you admit we need him then?' Clint asked pointedly. 'Because as I recall, you said-'

'I know what I said,' Steve interjected. 'And that's really not helping.' They were sitting in one of their souped-up cruisers on the roadside, watching the rain patter down on the windscreen. There was nothing going on tonight.

'Neither is your attitude,' Clint said. 'We can't keep going with you kicking us out left right and centre.'

'I know.'

Clint pulled a bottle of whiskey from his jacket and cracked it open; Steve gave it a sidewards glance.

'Hey,' he said, 'that's illegal.'

'We're not on the job right now,' Clint said. 'Besides, I bought it before prohibition. It's good stuff.'

'Hey,' Steve said, taking the bottle, 'if you were never on the take, how did you afford this stuff?' Clint laughed as Steve took a swig.

'I walked to the precinct for two weeks,' he said. 'I didn't even have money for the bus. That bottle cost me three hours of wages, the number of times I was late because I had to walk.'

'It was worth it,' Steve said, passing the bottle back with a grin. Clint nodded and took a swig.

'So, Tony-'

'Tony endangered us all,' Steve said. 'I'm still trying to work out what to do about that.'

'He's forcing Stane's hand,' Clint said. 'True, he's forcing it against us, but-'

'We were on our way to getting that sorted,' Steve said. Clint shook his head.

'You don't have to do everything yourself,' he said. 'Do I have to knock some sense into you again? Stark might be crazy, but he's also crazy smart. If he's got a plan, it's a good one.'

'Better than mine?' Steve asked, and Clint laughed.

'Come on!' he said. 'Don't tell me you're jealous of that drunkard! Look, your plans are very police: you'll go after the operation until the big guy's got no choice but to show himself. But Tony, he thinks like Stane. He knows how the guy operates, so he's working on pushing him into a corner without him realising it.'

'Maybe,' Steve admitted. 'But there's a lot of unpredictability to it. And we're outta the loop, I don't like it.'

'You don't have to,' Clint said. 'You just gotta go along with it.' He took one last swig from the bottle and replaced it in his jacket before taking a file from another pocket. It was crumpled up and dog-eared.

'Seriously, Clint?' Steve said. 'you've gotta take better care of the police reports, okay.'

'I know!' Clint sighed. 'But... look, take me to this address, please?'

'This is in Hell's Kitchen,' Steve said. 'Are you sure this is a good idea?'

'I need to talk to this guy,' Clint said. 'Please?'

'Sure thing.' Steve put the car in gear and sped along the rain-drenched streets.

Clint waited for the inevitable questions; sure enough, Steve obliged.

'That an assignment from Janet?' he asked, almost casually.

'You should really trust her,' Clint said. 'For a start, she's your boss.'

'When did you get that?'

'She gave me the assignment at the start of August,' Clint explained. 'The family have to pay monthly, unmarked bills in a suitcase left just outside Hell's Kitchen in the doorway of a mob speakeasy; they got the letter a few weeks ago, after their daughter was taken. I'm just biding time, waiting for the drop so I can follow the trail.'

'And in the meantime?'

'Try to dismantle the mob, piece by piece. But that address is different; I've looked into this a little, talked to some mob contacts, and this guy's firm keeps coming up, they do a lot of work for Fisk and Stane. I'm hoping I can get a paper trail from their records; maybe I can find the girl in one of Fisk's properties.'

'That seems like a bit of a stretch,' Steve said uncertainly. Clint shrugged.

'I get these addresses,' he said, 'we have more information about Fisk. If it leads to the girl, that's a bonus.'

'She's been gone nearly a month,' Steve said. 'Are you sure she's still alive?'

'Just drive, Captain.' They said nothing else for the rest of the journey.

-

**August 1921**

When Sam walked into the precinct the next day he was clutching his head and doing his best not to throw up. Natalia greeted him with a half-hearted wave.

'You're here early,' he muttered, heading straight for the coffee pot.

'Never left,' Natalia said. 'You had a lot to drink last night.'

'I didn't make a fool of myself, did I?' he asked, taking a sip of coffee.

'No,' Natalia said. 'You were very sweet.' Sam paused.

'Oh God,' he muttered. Natalia grinned.

'Actually you didn't do much,' she said. 'You were very helpful with some of your ideas, though – I made the call last night, they're gonna start moving cargo twice weekly. Smaller shipments, but it gives you twice the chances to catch them.'

'How did you sell that one?' Sam asked, sitting next to her.

'I don't have to,' Natalia said. 'That's Vlad's job.'

'What fun for Vlad,' Sam murmured, eyes still closed. Natalia chuckled.

'Wow,' she said, 'for a bartender, you really can't hold your drink, can you?'

'Hey, you hush,' Sam rasped. 'I don't usually have to drink with the customers. Besides, you started hogging the vodka; it wasn't my fault I had to get something else!'

'So Clint's whiskey?' Nat asked, amused.

Sam's eyes shot open.

_Shit_.

-

**September 1921**

'Y'know, I'm pretty sure this tasted different,' Clint said, looking at the bottle again. Steve chuckled.

'You haven't opened it in more than a month,' he said. 'How do you remember what it tastes like?'

'How do I remember what anything tastes like?' Clint asked suddenly, sidetracked. Steve looked at him.

'Okay,' he said. 'I'm genuinely concerned. Are you gonna be okay in there?' Clint turned at glanced at Steve, his eyes twinkling and a wicked smile playing on his lips. Gotcha; Steve's head fell into his hand and he groaned.

'You're an ass, you know that?' he said. 'Go on, go detect.'

'Fine,' Clint said. 'You be ready to drive me away – I don't wanna be stranded here when things go to Hell.'

He got out of the car and walked up to the door. Rapping on it smartly, he entered the premises of Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law.

It was dark inside; the shutters were drawn and there was only one light on in one of the offices. Clint stood in the small waiting room and leaned awkwardly against the desk. _What, are they all out?_ He wondered. After a moment, he got up and shuffled around the small room, kicking up tiny puffs of dust from the carpet. The shutters between offices were drawn too, allowing very little light to escape.

'Are you here for a consultation?'

Clint turned, hand going immediately for his gun. He relaxed; out of the dark room had come a thin man wearing glasses. The glasses were round, with black lenses.

'...are you Mr Nelson?' he asked, taking a step forwards. The man gave a slight chuckle.

'Actually I'm Mr Murdock,' he said, holding out his hand and smiling. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr...?'

'Barton,' Clint said, grasping his hand. 'Clint Barton. Actually, I was wondering if I could discuss some of your recent cases?' The smile faded slightly as Murdock withdrew his hand.

'I... that would breach confidentiality,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'

'I understand,' Clint said. 'Would it matter if I told you it was a police matter?'

'I suppose that does change things. Please, step into my office.'

Clint obliged, taking care not to shift the seat he took in the small office. The lawyer stepped easily around the desk and took the other seat.

'What is this about, exactly?' he asked, hands clasped in front of him.

'I need some information on a client of yours,' Clint said. He took his badge from his pocket and slid it across the desk until it touched Mr Murdock's hands. He flinched slightly at the cold metal, but his fingers brushed across it and understanding dawned on his face.

'Just in case you were wondering,' Clint muttered, and the man smiled.

'How can I help, Detective?' he asked.

'You helped out a criminal who was represented by a Wilson Fisk,' Clint said. 'Did you get an address for the employer?'

'Just some docks address,' Murdock said. 'Literally, a docks warehouse. I had Mr Nelson check it out, but the cheque was legitimate so we didn't question it.'

'I see,' Clint said. He took out a small crumpled notebook and jotted something down. 'Do you have some paperwork I could examine to verify that?'

'Somewhere,' Murdock said. 'But it'd be easier if you found it yourself.' He gestured behind him, where fileboxes stood stacked high on the windowsill. 'I'm not exactly great at organisation,' he added apologetically.

'Thanks,' Clint said. 'Do you mind if I collect them tomorrow? I'd like to take them back to the precinct and go over them there.'

'By all means,' Murdock said. They sat there in silence for a while.

'Was there something else?' Murdock asked eventually. Clint looked up; he had been staring at the floor.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I was lost in my own head. A lot of problems, weighing on my mind.'

'It's Fisk, isn't it?' Murdock asked. 'He's a bit of a ghost, all things considered.' Clint regarded the lawyer cautiously.

'Yeah,' he said evenly. 'Yeah, he is. How d'you figure?'

'He's hired me a few times,' Murdock said. 'Always through a proxy, usually a man named... what was it? James something...'

'James Westley?' Clint asked. Murdock nodded.

'That'll be the guy,' he said. 'He's the one you need to speak to.'

'Thanks,' Clint said. 'Well, I think that's about it. If you think of anything else, let me know.'

'I will,' Murdock agreed. 'Thank you for stopping by; I wish you well.' He stood and gestured to the door. Clint turned to go, but looked back as he stood in the doorway.

'You, uh... you need any help locking up tonight, Mr Murdock?' he asked. 'I notice you're all alone here...'

'I'm fine,' Murdock said. 'And please, call me Matt. Thank you, though; I'll see you in the morning to collect those boxes.' Clint nodded. He said his farewells and left.

Matt waited until he heard the roar of the car as it pulled away, and then turned off the light and left himself. His stick tapped the ground lightly; tonight was going to be a long night.

-

**August 1921**

It was rare for the twins to meet Natalia in person, but they did so the next day. Pietro rounded on her at the docks.

'Splitting the shipments?' he snapped. 'Are you insane? Do you know what that's gonna do to us?'

'We move the cargo in two separate shipments,' Natalia said. 'It's harder to trace, we'll be using two separate docks. We've already seen the sort of damage Captain Rogers can do – he almost took out Driver thirteen, it was sheer luck he managed to get away.'

'Splitting the shipments means fewer cars each night!' Pietro rallied. 'If Rogers is operating every night – or if he realises what's going on and follows suit – we'll be sitting ducks! We'll be operating on the edge as it is, this is even riskier!'

'That's why we change the nights each week,' Natalia said. 'Pietro, you fail to grasp the economics of the situation, and Stane has already-'

'Stane agrees because you gave him no choice,' Wanda cut in calmly. 'What's more, he believes you are still on his side. Therefore, he is grudgingly going along with it. But we will not stand for your meddling, not when it threatens the operation.'

'When it does,' Natalia replied with equal calm, 'you may tell me how to run things.'

'I think we'll be past telling you anything by then,' Pietro spat. He turned, and his sister led him away. Natalia sighed as they retreated to their car. Stane would likely hear about this.

The nearest payphone was on the street corner, close to the docks. She rang a number.

'Rogers, NYPD.'

'Captain,' she said, 'things are moving faster than I'd like. There's a shipment moving out tomorrow night; do you think you can run down a few of the drivers?'

'A few? Well, I can certainly try-'

'Good,' she said. 'I expect your best, Captain, I am counting on you.' She hung up and signalled for a taxi. Stepping inside, she forced herself to relax. _Things will be fine_ , she told herself. _Things will be fine. I am still in control. I am still in control._

The taxi roared off, and Natalia felt less and less sure as the docks disappeared from sight.

-

Tony stared at the man opposite him in mild disbelief. _This guy?_ his mind was screaming. _This guy is the man who's getting under the mob's skin?_

Ben Urich was a short, thin man who wore clothes which were too big for him, and glasses which took up half his face and made his eyes look like saucers.

'Ben... Urich?' Tony asked for the third time that meeting. Ben sighed and shoved a stack of papers towards him.

'This is everything I've found out about the mob,' he said. 'Mr Stark, you might be my employer, but even I can tell you're playing a dangerous game.' Tony's eyes instantly narrowed.

'How much do you know, Urich?' he asked. 'What, should I turn you over to the mob myself?'

'I wouldn't like that,' Urich chuckled. 'But really, I'm a journalist, it's my job to know things. And I dug up some of your mob connections, Mr Stark. Don't worry,' he added as Tony opened his mouth to speak, 'they won't make it into the paper; I have _some_ sense of self-preservation.'

'Not enough to keep from coming here,' Tony said.

They were in his office, one of the only times Urich had been there personally. It had been pure luck Tony had found him, actually; one of the journalists mentioned in passing that Urich liked to wander the streets of Hell's Kitchen at night, talking with the gangsters who were wandering off shift and buying them a drink. He'd spotted Tony a mile off, striding through the docks district like he owned the place, and had rushed to his side in warning.

From there, Tony had led him back to the offices.

'No one else here,' Urich noted slyly. 'Is that how you wanted it? Or should I expect Stane to burst through the door at any moment?' Tony shook his head.

'Just the two of us,' he said, pouring a glass of whiskey from his hip flask. He offered the glass to Ben; he shook his head.

'Mr Stark,' he said eventually, 'I hope you know what you're doing. Stane is a dangerous man to be involved with, especially when you own half the city.'

'I don't own half the city,' Tony retorted, concentrating on his glass. 'What can you tell me, Ben?'

'Not a lot. Stane works with the Russians, they bring in bootleg vodka. But Torrio sends him some Tequila through his Chicago outfit. And of course, the whiskey comes straight from the Canadian border.'

'What about his operations?' Tony prompted. 'Addresses, contacts?' Urich sat in thought for a while before answering.

'Well,' he said, 'there's a few Russians he meets with. Natalia Romanova is the main one, she runs the whole operation; but there's a coupla kids he meets with too. And now Natalia's gone off the grid, even her seconds have lost her; she sends a man named Vlad in her place. He's one of my informants, I imagine he'd talk to you willingly if you wanted me to set up a meeting.'

'What are you trying to get me into, Urich?' Tony asked. Ben's hands instantly shot up in defence.

'Nothing!' he insisted. 'But you're in deep enough already. Mr Stark, I can't get the information you need to protect yourself, and you're running two sides of a con game here. You need to be on the front lines, if only so you know what's happening.'

Tony felt his hand shaking again; the whiskey rippled against the sides of the glass. He set it down, grasping it firmly in his hand in an attempt to stop the shakes.

'Front line?' he asked. 'That... sounds kinda dangerous.'

'Have you ever been a reporter, Mr Stark?' Ben asked. 'The front line is where all the reporters are, it's where the story is. Mr Stark, if you want to get some leverage against the mob, you need to be where the mob is, you need to be doing the dirty business with them.' Stark sat in shock for a while – he could feel the panic rising in his throat like a sob, the shakes were getting worse – before he remembered where he was and started to breathe calmly. Rhodey's face, close to his, the calm eyes staring into his; that image was imprinted on his mind as he forced the breaths out and forced himself to calm down. When he opened his eyes, Ben Urich was staring at him curiously.

'Alright,' Tony said eventually. 'Front lines. I've got a coupla ideas, when can you speak to Vlad?'

'I'll have to find him,' Ben said, 'but you'll have your talk by September. Is that okay?'

'That's good enough,' Tony said. 'Hmmm... I'll have to tell Pepper to extend her holiday. Thanks, Ben; keep up the good work.'

-

**July 1921**

Natalia tried to see as few people personally as possible; she sat in her office, or on the yacht, swirling vodka around the glass and listening to the clink of the ice on the sides, idly staring at the door or the wall, or else scribbling notes on paper, gang movements and shipment sizes, sometimes trying to memorise the list of serial numbers filed off of new weapons.

Vlad entered when Natalia was in the vodka phase tonight; she stared through him as he entered and stood to attention patiently. It was a well-rehearsed routine, they'd had years to perfect it.

Even before she took over from her father, Natalia had commanded the respect of the Russian gangs. Vlad had been one of the first followers, and she had seen his potential – something he had been grateful for. Now, he was her most-trusted lieutenant.

'Stane is mustering his forces,' she said eventually. 'He is trying to rip the New York market from Torrio's hands without him realising it.'

'Torrio is smart,' Vlad reasoned. 'He won't have left without some sort of security.' Natalia snorted.

'Torrio left New York to fester,' she sighed. 'He left it to Stane, knowing full well what he would do. Torrio is testing Stane, and we are the unwitting pawns.' Vlad was silent for some time as he considered this.

'So we fight back,' he said. 'Quietly.'

'Good,' Natalia said with a sly smirk. 'You are learning. But how do we fight back?'

'We could try a coup-'

'Too loud,' Natalia dismissed. 'Besides, we have a coup of our own to deal with. Why has that not been sorted?'

'The Maximoffs are difficult to track,' Vlad admitted. 'They are crafty, they hide themselves. But perhaps we can use them...' Natalia drummed her fingers on the desk as plans cropped up in her head.

'They have a lot of support,' she said eventually. 'We would have a fight on our hands once Stane was out of the picture.'

'Don't we anyway?' Vlad asked. 'No matter what we do, the Maximoffs will be working to move in as soon as we take control.'

'Then we need reinforcements,' Natalia said. 'Think harder.'

It took an hour of bouncing ideas off each other before Natalia had the answer.

'The police,' she said. 'We work with the police. They can take out Stane, remove him from the picture. And then we are in charge.'

'That doesn't sound like such a good idea,' Vlad cautioned. 'Most of them work for Stane in any case.'

'Then we find the ones who don't,' Natalia said. Vlad nodded and left the room.

It took weeks to comb the NYPD and find the most likely suspect, but as soon as he was done the list ended up on Natalia's desk. It took just a few minutes before she pointed to one name and said, 'him.' Vlad nodded, and the preparations were made.

'All this security?' Stane asked at the next meeting. Natalia sauntered down the dock and smiled warmly at him.

'It's a precaution,' she said. 'As I understand, Captain Rogers is back on the force, and he's looking for blood.'

'We can deal with him,' Stane said. Natalia's smile faded.

'I hope there will be no need,' she said. 'He seems harmless enough for the moment. But I am meeting him tonight, on my yacht, to assess the situation – Mr Stane, you have done business with Vlad before, correct? He will take over my duties tonight.'

'Ms Romanova-' Stane began, but Natalia shot him a warning look.

'If you are about to suggest I do not meet with the Chief of the Prohibition Division, I urge you strongly to reconsider,' she said. 'I am quite capable of handling myself. Goodnight, Mr Stane.'

She walked confidently to the yacht and up the gangplank, quietly relieved to be free of Stane. She opened the door to the cabin...

'Inside, now!' She gasped as she felt the hand on the small of her back, but she was inside and the door closed before she could shout out. She whirled, ready to attack.

Steve Rogers stood in the doorway.

Natalia could barely hide her smile.

-

**August 1921**

Natalia giggled as Sam paced the room, his face a mask of sweat.

'Do you know what he'll do to me if he finds out I drank _another_ of his whiskey bottles?' he quavered. 'Last time I did this, it took months for him to forgive me!'

'Relax, lightweight,' Natalia said. 'I'm sure he'll understand it was all in good fun! I mean, _we_ had a nice night, didn't we?'

'Did we?' Sam asked pointedly. 'Because I don't remember, seeing as I was hopped up on vodka _and_ whiskey!' Natalia pouted in mock-upset before breaking into a grin.

'Don't worry,' she said, getting up and stopping him mid-pace. 'You forget who you drank with? I'll be back in half an hour, just stay put.'

'You know what you're doing?' Sam asked. Natalia nodded, fishing the bottle from the bin.

'First things first,' she said, 'I'm getting rid of the evidence.' With that, she left, and Sam collapsed into his chair.

Thankfully, it was twenty minutes later that Clint stormed into the office, his eyes frantically searching around.

'Morning, Clint,' Sam said nervously, staring uncomprehendingly at his paperwork. He rubbed his head, trying to clear the fog of leftover alcohol from his brain.

'Have you seen my whiskey?' Clint asked, opening the cupboards in the small kitchen. Sam rubbed the sweat from under his collar.

'I haven't,' he said. 'Do you think Steve took it? Y'know, we're not-'

'Are you kidding me?' Clint asked. 'Nah, we might be the sober squad but we sure as Hell don't have to work without a drink.'

'I can't help then,' Sam said. 'Sorry.'

'Ehhh, it's fine,' Clint said. 'But I need a drink this morning. I had a bad night.'

'What happened?' Sam asked. Clint sat opposite him, avoiding his gaze.

'I'm looking for a missing girl,' he said. 'And I visited the parents.'

'Damn.' Sam placed a consoling hand on Clint's shoulder. 'Man, that's rough. How did they take-'

'That wasn't the bad part,' Clint said, shrugging off the hand. 'It was... well, the parents weren't the problem.'

'What happened?' Sam asked. Clint's eyes turned to him, miserable and ringed with dark bags.

'This case,' he said. 'It's gonna put us in deep. I take this, we're all in danger.'

'Why?' Sam pressed. 'You can't say that and then keep it from me, Clint! You gotta tell us.'

'Okay,' Clint said. 'Here's the story...'

-

The house was all the way out on Staten Island; Clint grumbled at the thought of getting back, the taxi there had cost him enough. He rapped on the door and waited.

'Are you Derek Bishop?' he asked, as the door opened and a well-dressed man stepped out, smiling broadly. The smile faltered at the sight of Clint, but he kept it up nonetheless.

'Hi,' he said. 'How can I help you?'

'I'm here to ask about your daughter,' Clint stated. 'May I come in?' His ears picked up the delicate sounds of cutlery scraping against plates and muted conversation.

'Um,' Derek Bishop said, tugging at his collar.

'Now's not a good time?' Clint asked suspiciously. 'If you don't mind, I'd like to come in anyway.'

'I don't think-'

'Neither do I,' Clint interrupted, pushing past him and heading for the dining room.

_Well shit_ , he thought as he stared. _And here I thought this would be an easy assignment_.

The table had gone silent. Eleanor Bishop sat at one end of the table, her soup spoon suspended midway to her half-open mouth as she stared up at the dishevelled cop. Businessmen and their wives stuttered to a halt and the flow of conversation was dammed abruptly. At once, all eyes turned to the chair Clint was staring at, where one man kept eating diligently, seemingly ignorant of the surrounding commotion.

Johnny Torrio was back in New York.

 


	10. Caught in the Crossfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has gone missing. Steve sets out to find him, but he needs help. Things start going very, badly wrong...

**October 1921**

Clint eyed the scene through the rifle scope. Stark was beaten up pretty bad, but there was no doubt. It was him.

Facing him, Rogers, Rhodes, Wilson, and _that girl, what was her name? Carter, that's right_ , Wilson and Carter.

On the other side, Stane, Romanova, and the Maximoffs. _And about three truckloads of mobsters_ , his brain supplied, and he cursed. A quick scan of the rooftops at least let him know it wasn't all lost.

Clint was crouched atop a half-finished building, the open space between the girders where the wall had yet to be built affording him an unrivalled view of the city. He could feel the open space all around him; one careless footfall would be certain death, he knew. _But what are the chances of that happening_? He thought. _Pretty high, since it's me,_ the thought continued. Clint snorted and took a drink from the bottle next to him. Not alcohol, water; filled from the spigot in the back yard back home, next to his lean-to.

'Damn thing needs oiling,' he muttered. 'Took twice as much effort to pump it up today.' He adjusted his jacket slightly, nestling the rifle butt back into his shoulder and sighting Stane down the scope again. Anything happened today, he was going to get it.

Down on the ground, Steve was approaching Tony, a leather satchel in his hands.

'You okay, Tony?' he asked, stepping forward confidently. His gun remained in its holster, glued to his hip, but his hand was hovering over it at all times. They were out in the open here; if Stane opened fire, there was nothing to hide behind. _At least the others will be safe_ , he thought, not daring to glance back at the blockade they'd set up with their cars, parked facing away from each other in the middle of the road. Nobody was getting into Hell's Kitchen this way today.

'I've been better,' Tony replied evenly. _You're keeping your composure remarkably well_ , Steve thought, allowing a grin to escape to his lips momentarily. Tony let slip too, a nervous half-smile. Sweat was beading on his forehead. His hands were bound with tape; Steve looked down at them for a moment, his face darkening, before the feeling passed and his professionalism took over.

'We'll get you outta here,' he reassured Tony. His next step brought him right next to Stark, and Tony almost collapsed under the sincerity of those blue eyes. His face, however, betrayed nothing behind a cocksure grin.

'Whatever you say, boss,' he said. Steve noted the glint of fury which passed over Stane's satisfied smirk. He grinned, and took another step forward, putting himself between Tony and the mobster who was guarding him.

'All yours,' he said, holding out the bag at arms length.

-

**August 1921**

Natalia started as Vlad burst into the office, a rag clutched to his lip and his eyes wide and darting to and fro.

'You sold me out!' he roared. 'You turned me into the cops! You told them I was a traitor!'

'I did,' Natalia replied, staring him down. 'I had to make sure you were with me.'

'And that was the best way?' Vlad cried, slamming his fist down on the table.

'Yes!' Natalia snapped, standing suddenly. 'Because now you know, if you ever cross me, you'll be seeing people just like them, only I'll be telling them not to bring you back alive!'

Vlad stared, gritting his teeth, his hands balled into fists. In the grimy light which filtered in from the streetlight outside, only half his face was visible.

'You sold me out,' he said, 'as a test?' His eyes were hooded, black holes underneath his creased brow, but this was nothing Natalia had not seen before.

'No,' Natalia said. 'I sold you out to people I trust. They're cops, Vlad, but they're the straightest cops in New York. If you're in trouble, from now on, you're with me. They know that. That's exactly what I told them. You earned my trust Vlad, and that means you're with us.'

Silence reigned. Only the sounds of distant sirens and faint gunshots echoed over the lapping waters of the nearby docks.

'You set me up,' Vlad said quietly. 'Why should I stay on your side?' Natalia's eyes softened and she walked over to him, taking his hand in hers. She felt him flinch, but he did not draw away.

'Because you know where you stand with me,' she said quietly.

It took Vlad a while to answer, as he was drawn into her arms and his own enveloped her body.

'Yeah,' he murmured in her ear. 'Yeah, I know.'

Behind his back, Natalia gave a satisfied smile.

-

**October 1921**

Steve's fist thudded in and came out again, bruised with use and bloodied with tooth chips. He'd long ago dispensed with the questions; now this was about petty revenge.

Donnie had long-since given up trying to reason with Steve. Now he took it, waiting for the Captain to tire out, or his face to finally lose all feeling, or something which would stop the wet, aching feeling of those fists pounding into his skin. His eyes had been forced shut by the swelling; that, he reflected, was a blessing, since he could no longer see Steve's fury in between the fists.

'That's enough, Rogers!'

The voice cut like a bell through the wet splatters of fist on pulpy flesh, and Donnie was grateful. The click of the gun which came next did little to comfort him, however.

'He's no use to us like this,' the voice said. 'If you'd waited-'

'TONY IS MISSING!' Steve's shout drowned out any more talk and vaporised the noise in the room.

'They've taken Tony,' Steve said quietly, desperately. 'They've got him and we've gotta get him back because-'

'I know,' the other voice said. 'That's why you needed to wait. I could've talked to him, he would've helped.'

'I'm... I'm sorry,' Steve's voice, weak, hoarse. Donnie wanted to pat him on the back.

'Now,' the voice said – Donnie finally realised, a voice he'd heard before – 'Now,' it said, 'get me a pen.'

Something was shoved into Donnie's open hand; he gripped it inexpertly. He could sense the person opposite him, close.

'You remember me, Donnie?' the voice asked. Donnie nodded. 'Write my name,' the voice continued.

He scrawled childishly, first an R... then an O... an M... an A...

'That's good enough Donnie,' Natalia said. 'Time is short, we mustn't waste any: so tell me, where would they have taken Tony Stark?'

D... O... N... T... K

'I get it,' Natalia said. 'Okay, let's try something else... would they trade you for him?' Donnie shook his head. Whatever had been masking the pain while Steve's fists slammed into his head was wearing off; now he had a headache around his entire head. He could feel his shirt, wet with blood, another nice suit ruined.

'That doesn't leave us many options,' Natalia said evenly. Donnie felt a threat lying in the air, but he no longer cared. 'How many would it take to get Stark back in one piece?'

2\. Donnie didn't need to tell her which two.

'That would be difficult, even with Stark,' Natalia said. 'Well thank you Donnie; I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner.' He heard the scrape of a chair, the click of high heels on concrete and a whisper to Steve, somewhere far off. Sounds of the two of them, walking away.

'Wait!'

They stopped at his voice, slurred through broken teeth and swollen cheeks.

'We'll let Stane know where you are,' Natalia said. 'As soon as I contact him. That's all, Donnie.'

'No!' Donnie insisted, rattling forward on the chair, rocking himself towards their voices.

'What?' Steve asked this time. 'Was the first round not enough for ya? In case you haven't noticed, we're pressed for time here. We've gotta get some leverage-'

'Yesh!' Donnie nodded enthusiastically as Steve stared at him quizically. The mobster managed to pop one eye open and stare back evenly. Steve walked closer to the chair.

'What have you got?' he asked, standing opposite Donnie, hands still balled into fists.

'Fishk!' Donnie said. He gripped the pen and started writing frantically on the piece of paper propped on his leg. Steve rushed forward to hold it steady.

It took minutes, the awkward writing position and Donnie's swollen eyes hampering the process, but when it was done Steve stared at it in amazement and copied it down in his own neat script.

'Thank you,' Steve said in earnest. Donnie nodded and sat back, exhausted. He was surprised when there was a grunt behind him, and suddenly the pressure was released from his wrists. Then his legs were free and Steve was under his arm, supporting him as he limped out of the warehouse.

'We'll drop you where you ask,' Steve said. 'It's the least I could do,' he added quietly, looking away. Donnie nodded and stooped inside the car.

'Docksh,' he managed. 'I'll fin' my way from there.'

The drive to the docks did not take long. Donnie got out of the car, and Steve and Natalia drove off again, heading for a property on Staten Island. Donnie watched them go, but stood on the street corner and waited rather than heading home himself.

'Big Donnie.' Donnie turned to the voice. A huge man in a white suit, who loomed over even him; he was bald, his hands were like shovels.

'Thought I'd make it eashy for ya,' Donnie spat through bloody gums. The man nodded.

'You always knew the business,' he said. 'It's a shame to see you go.'

'You took Shtark,' Donnie replied. 'I... couldn't let that shtand.'

'That was business.'

'Sho is this.' Donnie slipped the brass knuckles from his pockets and fitted them over his fingers.

'I thought you were making it easy for me.'

'Go to Hell, Fishk.' Donnie raised his arms in a boxer's pose.

Wilson Fisk moved surprisingly fast for a man his size. His hands were around Donnie's throat in an instant, lifting him into the air. Donnie kicked out, planting a foot under Fisk's ribs, but it did little save for angering him further. Donnie heard cracks, felt the strength leaving his body as the fingers tightened and strained bone; his fist hit out, finding a solid target, and Fisk grunted, but there was no let-up on the strangulation. And then Donnie's feet hit the ground, and Wilson Fisk was putting all his weight onto his collarbones; he fell to his knees, turning blue from lack of oxygen, and hit out again and again. His eye fixated on that determined face and his fists followed the line of sight; He watched as Fisk winced from the blows but did not move away.

Finally, with one more effort, Fisk bend his hands inwards. There was a crack and Donnie's head was twisted upwards sharply. He let out a last gasp before his body went limp.

Fisk grunted with satisfaction. He stepped away and took a handkerchief from his pocket as mobsters swarmed past to clean up the scene, carefully removing any wayward evidence. Wilson Fisk wiped at a cut under his eye, the worst damage done by Big Donnie's fist. His job done, he pocketed the handkerchief and walked away, along the boardwalk. He looked out towards the ocean and smiled at the view.

-

**August 1921**

Johnny Torrio continued to eat, despite the stillness around him. His eyes barely left his plate to flick up to Clint, the merest glance before he returned to dinner. He cleared the plate, mopping up the gravy with a chunk of bread before wiping his mouth on his napkin and sitting straight, regarding the detective coolly.

'You'll have to forgive me, Detective,' he announced. 'I was rather enjoying that, the Bishops' cook has not lost any of his skill over the years. But,' he added, nodding to his hosts, 'I assume you are not here to talk to me about anything?'

'Not at all,' Clint said, putting on his poshest sounding voice. 'The Bishops require my assistance with a personal matter.' Nonetheless, he could not help staring at the gangster who sat calmly opposite him, his face framed by the dim gas lighting.

'Perhaps we should retire to the parlour while our guests finish dinner,' Eleanor suggested eventually. Clint's hand twitched as he broke from his reverie, thoughts of gunning down the king of the rum runners gone from his head.

'Huh? Oh, of course.' He turned to the guests. 'My apologies; enjoy your meal.'

Only when the parlour door was closed did he return to his usual demeanour.

'Maybe you wanna tell me why you're dining with the gangster's gangster?' he hissed to the couple. Eleanor opened her mouth to protest, but Derek broke in first.

'We called him to help first,' he admitted. 'We suspected it was a message from the mob, this kidnapping, I was hoping he would be able to trace the source and simply... make it better, y'know?'

Clint sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

'And it never occurred to you that _he_ could be the source of all of it?' he asked. 'I mean, he runs the damn mob from here to Chicago! What, you think he doesn't know every aspect of what's going on here?'

'He doesn't,' Eleanor cut in insistently. 'Now look, we're trying to get our daughter back and we asked a favour from-'

'Wait, wait,' Clint said, holding up his hands. 'Go back. What do you mean, he doesn't?'

'Elle, baby, don't-' Derek started, but his wife glared at him and he shut up.

'Stane is planning a coup,' she said. 'He's trying to cut him out of the moonshine business up here, he's working on it with his enforcer and their assistant, looking for legal loopholes; they're in business together, he thinks if he finds the chink in the contract he can cut out Torrio for good and control the whole Northern alcohol trade.'

'How do you know all this?' Clint asked her. Eleanor coloured.

'Karen and Foggy let slip a couple of weeks ago,' she said. 'They're not here tonight, of course, I wouldn't _dream_ of letting them talk to Johnny, especially not when the alcohol is flowing!'

'Who are Karen and... Foggy?' Clint asked. 'What kinda name is Foggy, anyway?'

'They're friends of ours,' Derek said. 'They've done some legal work for us in the past, well their offices have anyway, it's a small firm, very hard to trace... look, I can't really say much about it, especially since Torrio is _two rooms away_!' He looked pleadingly at Clint; the detective nodded.

'Alright,' he said. 'So you were in deep with the mob; why did they take your daughter, any idea?'

'None,' Derek said. 'I'm still working for them, technically; these dinners serve as business deals half the time! It's a beneficial arrangement; we hook up senators and media moguls with a steady supply of alcohol in these... trying times... and we take a percentage of the profits. It's a bit of a markup, but they can afford it.'

'Alright,' Clint said. 'I get it. Don't worry, I'll find your daughter. Oh, and a work of advice,' he added, opening the door. 'Keep what you know to yourself. You never know who might be listening.'

As he passed by the open doors of the dining room again, Torrio's voice cut through the chatter.

'Detective Barton.' Clint entered the room cautiously.

'As I understand it,' the gaunt mobster said, 'you are working with the prohibition squad here in New York.' Clint nodded cautiously, and Torrio grinned. He motioned to a man on his left, who walked over and held out a hand.

'You ever want to stop by for a drink and a chat,' he said, 'you can find me there. I find it's always good to be close to the police.'

Clint took the card from the man's hand and glanced at the address before pocketing it. He nodded cordially to Torrio and, before he turned to leave, noted that while the man's mouth might have been smiling, his eyes certainly weren't.

-

August ended without much more event for Rhodey and Pepper. Tony had called sometime in the middle of the month to tell Pepper she couldn't go back to work yet.

'I'm sorry,' he'd said. 'This is taking longer than I expected. But I'll sort it out, don't you worry!' Without waiting for her reply he'd hung up and Pepper had fumed about that, but meeting with Clint had at least assuaged her fears a little. He told them about meeting Torrio, about the new lead he had on a law firm.

'Foggy and Karen,' he said. 'Those names mean anything to you?' Pepper wracked her brains.

'We had a legal dispute with a small business a couple of years back,' she said. 'They used a small local firm, their lawyer was Foggy... someone. I can ask Tony, he'll be able to place the name.'

'How does this help us?' Rhodey asked. 'Don't we just want to rock up to the address Vlad gave us and start beating up James Westley?'

'It's not just about finding Fisk anymore,' Clint said. 'Torrio's back in town, that could change things. And there's a missing girl... things are getting complicated.'

'It's the mob,' Rhodey said. 'Things are bound to get complicated. We find Fisk, that's the start of everything.'

'Or the end,' Clint warned. 'I've gotta find this girl first, and then-'

'Clint, Rhodey's right.'

Clint turned to Pepper, waiting for an explanation.

'Look,' she said. 'We're not going to find the girl without getting to the mob first, and if we can get Fisk then we've likely got the man who took her. Yes, it's risky; if the mob finds out then she could be killed. But so far, Westley is our only lead, and it's one we've got to take.'

'Alright,' Clint said. 'You're right, Ms Potts. Okay Rhodey, it's your show. But give me a day, okay? I need to speak to the commissioner before we do anything else.'

'Whatever you need,' Rhodes said. After Clint left he turned to Pepper. 'You think he's okay?' he asked.

'You work with him,' Pepper said, 'is he usually like this? I mean, he found out Torrio was back in town today; that's gonna rattle anyone who's not in the pocket of the mob.'

'Everyone says Clint's on the take,' Rhodes said. 'Complete crap, really; if you're ever in trouble and I'm not around, you can trust Clint at least.' Pepper smiled at that.

'Thanks Rhodey,' she said. 'That's good to know.'

After that, she left the hotel and took a taxi into the middle of the city. She told Rhodey she wouldn't be gone long and he allowed her to go unsupervised; sometimes a girl just needs her space.

She went back to the apartment, noting the car that was parked across the street; the sun was low and she couldn't see inside it.

'Probably nothing,' she muttered to herself, opening the door and heading up the stairs. Tony would be back within the hour and she needed to pick up a few things before he got back.

Her room was still pristine, untouched by the look of things. She checked the stove in the kitchen to make sure the gas was off and opened the windows too, just in case – the warm air of late summer filtered in, although there was already the cool breeze of the threatening autumn behind it. Only then did she return to her room and open drawers, packing a small bag with makeup, some spare clothes, a nice suit and taking some business papers from the safe before shutting it up tight again.

It was at that point that the first molotov struck the living room carpet.

Tony returned just five minutes later; he had already been speeding home. News of Torrio's return had reached his ears too, and he had no desire to hang around in Stane's garage if there was any potential of a visit from the man himself.

Tony did not know Torrio personally, but he did not need to. The man's reputation preceded him: he was a ruthless businessman and practically psychopathic in his illicit dealings, killing whenever it profited him. Tony did not want to think about how his own death might profit Torrio.

And yet here he was, outside his own apartment, slack-jawed as he saw the flames billowing out of the windows. There was a payphone on the corner; he ran to it and called a hotel.

'Come on,' he muttered, 'pick up, pick up, come on!'

'Rhodes,' Rhodey's voice was distant and tinny on the other end.

'Rhodey,' Tony said. 'Is Pepper with you?'

'No, she went-' Tony didn't even wait for him to finish. He dropped the phone and sprinted up the apartment stairs. Kicking the door open, he covered his mouth against the smoke – thankfully not too thick, thanks to the open windows – and called out.

'Pepper!' he cried. 'Pepper!'

'Tony?' Her voice seemed so faint, but he could tell roughly where it had come from. Getting on his stomach he crawled forward and called out her name again.

'Pepper!' he yelled. 'I'm on my way!'

A sodden towel landed with a wet slap in front of him and Pepper was standing over him.

'Get up!' she cried. 'I'm fine, let's go!' She put her own damp handkerchief to her mouth and breathed through it as Tony grabbed the towel and covered the lower half of his face, getting to his feet. The flames were biting and hot and they made the atmosphere feel so close; Tony was thankful Pepper was there after all. It was a few short steps and they were at the door. Pepper went through first and Tony followed; as soon as they were outside they collapsed on the steps, breathing heavily.

'What were you doing back here?' Tony gasped. 'I thought I told you-'

'I know!' Pepper snapped. 'But I needed to get some stuff, I was missing my home comforts and I was missing... I was...' She stared at Tony's worried face for a moment before hugging herself and turning away. She leaned in as Tony put his jacket around her, his arms around her.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'This is all my fault; I'm gonna talk to Stane tomorrow, I'll cut ties with him, I-'

'You can't,' Pepper said quietly. 'Tony, he'll kill you if you do that! You've gotta keep going, we'll figure something out!'

'...Yeah,' Tony said. 'Yeah, okay. We'll figure something out.'

-

**September 1921**

'What happened?' Stane demanded. 'Did he die? Why did you bomb his apartment?'

Wanda sighed and stared at the wall above Stane's head; Pietro stared him defiantly in the eyes.

'He's not working for you,' Wanda said. 'He's working for himself.'

'For our benefit,' Stane said. 'He's playing a game, but that's a game we can work with. If we allow him to continue, our cars will keep getting better-'

'But not as good as the cops' cars,' Pietro said. 'Have you seen that? They're good, better than ours, if this keeps up even Driver Thirteen won't be able to take them on-'

' _And if that happens, you two are out of a job_ ,' Stane concluded darkly. 'Remember, these cars are your ticket to a continued business here in New York. If it turns out you and your boys aren't up to the job, well, there's always another Russian I can partner with.'

Wanda glowered at Stane, but even Pietro did not risk another comment.

'Alright,' she said eventually. 'We'll find a way around the cops. But you may find our prices increase if this continues.'

'Then I'd better see results,' Stane said.

'You know what would help, don't you?' Wanda asked. Stane raised an eyebrow quizzically.

'Remove Stark from the picture,' Wanda explained. 'If he is gone, the NYPD lose their man on the inside.'

'You really think anything Stark says to them is of any value?' Stane snorted. Suddenly Pietro was right in front of him, nose-to-nose.

'Maybe not,' he murmured. 'But what he _does_ is. If he is modifying their cars too, then it's no wonder we cannot keep up! It's up to you, Stane; either he goes, or-'

' _Actually, it's not up to him at all_.'

The three of them turned. In the shadow of the garage a tall, portly man in a fitted suit stared back at them, a wry smile playing about his lips. His eyes, however, were stony dead, betraying no emotion. Pietro's eyes widened and he stepped between the man and Wanda, who was going ashy pale as he stepped out of the shadows and into the light. Stane's mouth hung open, unable to form words, and his hand went instinctively to the gun in his jacket. The other man's eyes flicked to him and he froze.

'Hello Obadiah,' he said, opening his arms warmly as he ambled towards them. 'Long time no see; how's my business?'

'Juh... Johnny,' Stane mumbled, robotically parroting his boss's movements until they gripped each other's arms in a pale facsimile of a hug. 'Mr Torrio,' he corrected himself. 'I was... unaware you would be visiting.'

'Well you seem to be having problems.' Johnny's face was a mask of concern but those eyes still promised murder. He looked around at the cars. 'What's this? You're one car down already?'

'The cops are getting clever,' Stane said. 'But we've got a man working for us who can help, he's been-'

'Ah yeah, Stark. I've heard about him. I wanna be here next time he's in, okay? I like to get the measure of a man myself.'

'Yes sir,' Stane said, his face suddenly stoically blank. He stared straight ahead, at the wall behind Torrio.

'And Pietro and Wanda, right?' he turned to the Russian youngsters and grinned. 'I understand you and Ms Romanova are having something of a falling out; don't let that interfere with operations.' His last sentence left a note of threat hanging in the air. Pietro swallowed, but nodded. Wanda didn't move; she stood, rooted to the spot. Torrio's gaze lingered on her for a moment, and she realised she couldn't read his expression. But then he grunted and turned back to Stane.

'Thank you, Obadiah,' he said. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

 

 


	11. All Under Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Tony Stark safe? What has Steve done to secure his release from Stane? Tony Stark is not yet free, but Captain Rogers has a plan. Will it work? Only time will tell, but rest assured: he's got it All under Control

**October 1921**

Johnny Torrio wasn't at the handover. Tony had known, even being kept isolated as he was, that the big boss would have skipped town before then. His position was sealed, and he thought he'd had Steve over a barrel.

Even so, Tony was impressed at the Captain's smarts – Hell, for a while _he_ thought they had Steve over a barrel, there was nothing the big guy could do. But something had obviously given him the upper hand; there was no way they were handing over the ransom money. Even he could see that. Surely Stane could too.

_He must know_ , Tony thought feverishly as he hobbled towards Steve. A hand on his shoulder stopped him at the point where the road narrowed, a military gathering of sandbags and barbed wire. The more Tony looked around, the more he felt outclassed here. This was not his world and he knew it – he _made_ guns, for Christ's sake, he wasn't the guy they were pointed at!

'You okay Tony?' Steve's voice cut through the chatter in his head like a bullet, icy cold calm steel in a blaze of burning worry. In one hand was the leather satchel; the other swayed easily at his hip, sticking close to his pistol. Tony stared at him, nerves jangling.

'I've been better,' he replied evenly. Steve grinned and Tony felt himself relax too; how had he never seen that grin before? That grin promised him the world, promised him the safety he knew he did not deserve.

'Wipe that smile offa your face,' the mobster behind him muttered, jamming a gun into his back and jerking him back to reality, where he realised his mouth had twisted into a delirious half-smile of hope. He regained his composure, staring straight into Steve's eyes; eyes which were currently downcast, catching on the tape which bound Tony's hands. _Oh God,_ Tony thought. _Shit, is he gonna lose it here? Now?_ But the cloud that darkened Steve's face passed, and he nodded minutely at Stark.

'We'll get you outta here,' he reassured him.

'Whatever you say, boss,' Tony replied, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. Steve's eyes passed from him to the background, and Stane must've been livid because the grin on Rogers' face said it all. He stepped smartly past Stark and Tony felt himself jostled forward slightly, Steve's back pressed reassuringly against his.

'All yours,' he said.

-

It was almost a month Tony was sat in the darkness, nothing but the dripping of stagnant water to accompany him.

The cell was not originally a cell, but rather a small stockroom in one of Stane's old breweries – he had owned legitimate businesses before the war, and this was one of them. Now the wooden door had been removed, replaced by a heavy steel one with sliding panels so he could be seen, and food passed through to him. Nobody spoke to him – they barely fed him.

But he was kept alive, more as a bargaining chip than anything else. If he was dead his businesses would pass to Pepper and the mob would lose their edge again. All the weapons, all the factories, everything – it would pass over to Ms Potts and they would see none of it. So instead he was kept alive in his cell, mob flunkeys took over his work in the factories – Stark himself had done a good job of clearing Pepper out of the way for them.

'All you have to do,' Stane said, sitting opposite him one day, 'is sign your properties over to me instead. Good friends, business partners! That's what we are! Nobody will be any the wiser.'

Tony stared at him vacantly.

'A will written and signed under duress,' he had replied, 'is not legally binding. You're gonna have to find another way.'

And so Stane had harrumphed and thrown him back in the cell and a few days had passed before they brought him out again.

'I really would rather we were friends, Tony,' he said. 'You're here in my cell because you refuse to work with us – perhaps if Torrio had not been so emphatic I could simply have put you on a shortened leash, but he is adamant: the Russians' engineer will continue your work, and you will be kept here until we can get a hold of Miss Potts or your factories.' Tony remembered his face at that time. Stane seemed almost sad to be doing this.

'I thought we could work together,' Tony said. 'You weren't even charging me protection money, this wasn't your usual racket. What was I about, Stane? What was I to you?'

And then he had been locked up again for another week. Food once a day, if he was lucky, and the rest of the time he was alone with the dripping.

And his thoughts.

He could not come up with a plan. He knew that. He had no way out of this, his strength was sapped from infrequent meals and the beatings he took whenever Stane let him loose.

But... but he would make sure the cops would be prepared to tackle the whole operation if they did get him free.

In the darkness, he traced pinpoints of light into lines and schematics which burned bright in the shadows, neon-bright blueprints in his mind projected onto solid concrete and steel by imagination and logic.

Oh, and possibly some sleep deprivation. He'd heard that could cause hallucinations too.

-

Tony began the walk back to the police cars. He saw Rhodey's eyes on him the whole time, that calmed him down further. Behind him he heard guns rattle and click against metal buckles as restless gangsters shifted nervously, and the mobster facing Steve rummaged in the leather knapsack for the money.

'Where's all the money, wise guy?' the gangster sneered. 'Looks like this is gonna go south for you...'

Tony's eyes closed. He was almost relieved; they hadn't paid the ransom after all. So what if he was gonna die? At least he was dying knowing that Steve Rogers wasn't stupid enough to pay for his dumb ass.

'What's this?' Tony turned. The mobster held a square of paper, staring at it in confusion. All of a sudden he made a strangled noise in his throat and motioned to Stane. The big guy walked over, his face a mask of bafflement, but it quickly turned to fury and he rounded on Steve.

'Where did you get this?' he cried, moving to draw his gun, but Steve was quicker on the draw.

'Easy, pal,' he said. 'If you do that, you'll never find him. Hell, even I don't know where he is! But if you kill me, you'll never meet the people who do.'

Tony stared at the three men incredulously. He turned and faced them.

'Do I get to know what's going on?' he asked. They turned to him.

'Keep walking, Tony,' Steve said. 'It's all under control.'

-

Clint stared at the address thrust before him, his eyes widening in shock. He glanced at Natalia and then at Steve, mouth agape.

'You wanna go there?' he asked. 'You wanna use those guys?'

'Clint, we don't even know who those guys are,' Steve sighed. 'Or what this place is. That's why we're asking you; do you think you can get us in?'

'you don't know what you're asking,' Clint said, standing. He pulled on his coat.

'You're crazy,' he continued, 'and you don't know what you're asking, but I'm gonna help you out anyway. We're going to Asgard.'

Asgard had been a trendy hole-in-the-wall jazz club before prohibition, host to some of the greats. Everyone played there, from Count Basie to Mary Lou Williams, and odds were the place would be swinging any day of the week. Now, however, it was dark and closed-off and just in the bad part of town, an area of Hell's Kitchen the mob didn't like wandering around late at night.

'What happened around here?' Steve murmured, eyeing bullet holes in the wall and a burnt-out car hiding in an alleyway.

'From what I hear,' Clint said, hammering on the enormous wooden door, 'Stane tried to move these guys outta here. Said they were causing too much trouble or something, interfering with his business. Well, they didn't take too kindly to the drive-by; they hauled the car into the alley and started beating on it, I hear one of them took his hammer to the thing! The mobsters couldn't get out, the alley was too narrow. So the guy smashed the windows and invited them out into the street for a good old-fashioned brawl!'

'How did you hear about this?' Natalia asked sarcastically. Clint grinned, revealing a broken tooth which she was sure had not been there before.

'Always got one ear to the ground,' he said.

'Mostly because you keep getting knocked on your ass in these places,' Steve finished. 'What's taking these guys so long?'

As if on cue, the door opened a crack and a strange, yellow-iris eye peered out at them.

'What do you want, Clint?' the eye asked irritably. Barton grinned and gestured to the other two.

'We're here because we need the warriors,' he said. 'Got a special job all lined up.'

'You're cops,' the eye said. 'How do I know you won't just turn the place over and arrest everyone?'

'I don't give a damn about your second-rate club,' Steve said, before Clint could stop him. 'Right now a friend of mine is missing, taken by the mob; I want your guys to take someone of theirs, even the playing field a little. Now, are your warriors interested?'

The eye narrowed at _second-rate_. But it weighed things up, and the door slammed shut for a moment as the chain was removed. It opened, revealing a tall black man clad in a shimmering golden suit.

'Gentlemen,' he said, his voice layered with hints of a foreign accent, 'welcome to Asgard.' He stepped aside, revealing the wonders of the club.

It was the usual low-ceilinged place, a den with oaken beams supporting the ceiling and a great, sprawling bar behind which were neatly placed bottles of almost every alcohol imaginable. Clint practically drooled at the sight of it; even Steve's eyes widened in wonder.

Behind the bar an old man stooped, polishing glasses; though his back was bent he still had a regal air about him, the sense and feel of a misplaced king. He looked up, and Steve was taken aback at the eyepatch which covered one side of his face. The old man nodded in greeting and Steve approached the bar – closer to, he could see that it was not just the main room with the stage that they had here, but there were several other spaces carefully concealed through trick lighting, clever paintwork and other illusions.

'You're here for the warriors,' the old man said matter-of-factly. 'You're a little early – the first of them will be getting up soon. Meantime, take a drink?'

Two whiskeys, neat, and a vodka on the rocks. Clint downed his quickly, not bothering to savour the taste, while Steve sipped his as he waited. He hadn't expected to dwell on the drink so much, but it was very good whiskey.

'They gave me the cheap stuff,' Clint said, making a face. 'All the better for getting drunk, I guess; here's to prohibition!'

'That's your lot,' Steve warned absently. 'I'm not having a drunken detective under my command today.' Clint sulked, but Natalia started whispering things in his ear and soon he was snorting with laughter. Sometimes he stared at Steve as he did so; Steve's eyes narrowed but he made no move to reprimand them. He savoured the whiskey and prepared himself mentally for the meeting; if it was anything like the mob informant he wanted his story straight.

There was a groan from somewhere above; Asgard was in a basement, light streaming in from windows near the ceiling which were just above sidewalk level, and the rooms above were all residential rooms. Ostensibly (Steve later learned) they were for the bar staff, and on occasion the regulars who needed to stay the night, but for a fee anyone could spend a night in one, away from their life and free from judement.

Unless you were doing harm to someone. Then the Warriors would judge, and they judged harshly.

The first of the Warriors entered the room, and Steve faltered. His mind stuttered as he took in the athletic body, strong legs and straight black hair. The first of the Warriors walked to the bar, took a drink and headed straight to their table.

'You're looking for the Warriors?' she asked. 'You're a little early. What's he doing here?' she added, pointing at Clint. He grinned.

'Strictly business tonight,' he said. 'We're after criminals!' The woman raised an eyebrow.

'Is that so?' she asked, taking a seat. She turned to Natalia and Steve. 'For those of you who don't know, I'm Sif.'

'You're not what I expected,' Steve blurted, stunned, and Sif scowled at him. 'Sorry,' he added sheepishly. 'Look, we need your help-'

'I'm not the person you need to ask,' she said abruptly, and got up from the table. She stood by the bar for several minutes, cracking her knuckles and occasionally taking a swig of beer.

The next two came downstairs at the same time: a short, portly man with a long beard and hair to match, wearing a pinstripe suit which did nothing to conceal the axe he strutted about with so confidently; and a tall, thin man, blond hair cut short but stylish and with a beard to match, in a tuxedo and bow tie. Again, the sword he carried was obviously on display. The two of them were in an animated discussion with each other, which they drew Sif into as they reached the bar; the three of them stood there, drinking and squabbling for some time.

'They are strange people, don't you think?' Natalia asked, but Steve didn't answer. He was watching Sif carefully.

She was pretty, in her own interesting way; others might call it handsome, but Steve felt that would do her disservice. She _was_ pretty, but her face was churlish and she seemed always to be frowning at something. She wore no makeup – unlike Natalia, he noted, there was no act here. She was not dressed up for someone; that was evident in her clothes, which were leather and wool, sturdy clothing suitable for work, rather than the fancy suits of her friends. Was she the leader of the group? Why had she told them she was not the person to talk to? Steve's eyes narrowed as the three of them glanced over and then returned to their conversation, no longer interested. The spectacle of new people had passed once their eyes had settled on Clint.

'Maybe we should've left you at the station,' Steve muttered.

'Hey!' Clint snapped, offended. 'What if you need me?'

'Well what can you tell us about them?' Natalia asked pointedly. 'You're the expert here, this is your field.'

'Fine,' Clint pouted. 'These three, they're the brains, brawn and finesse of the group respectively. She's smart, the fat one's strong and the thin one's good with that sword; they spend most nights in here brawling with the other customers, or else finding mobsters to brawl with in the streets.' Natalia scoffed.

'Is that all you can tell us?' she asked, incredulous. Clint sat back and sighed, staring at the ceiling.

'The two guys,' he continued. 'You see their weapons? Ancestral. Family heirlooms; their parents and grandparents used 'em for smashing heads and cutting throats, going all the way back to who-knows-when, and now they've got 'em. Make no mistake, those are two of the best weapons you'll find in this city, they've been cared for no matter how much they're used. Those suits? They're the biggest act in this place – you can't hear them, but they'll be talking all posh and trying to sound smart, it's a put-on. They won't use those weapons in a fight, they're trying to scare you guys. Or me. I might have made myself unpopular last time I was here.'

'What did you do?' Steve asked. Clint swallowed.

'I beat the fat one in an axe-throwing contest,' he said. 'And I cut the tip off his ancestral axe handle,' he added, seeing their faces. 'He fixed it, but still... I shouldn't have done it.'

'So why did you?' Steve asked.

'I didn't mean to,' Clint said, but Steve leaned over and stared at him.

'I don't care how drunk you are,' he said, 'ever. I know you're still a crack shot and a damn fine aim. It doesn't matter what you were drinking, you musta done that on purpose. Now, why did you?'

'He was being an ass!' Clint hissed finally. 'Showing off to everyone; I wanted to take him down a peg is all!'

'Well done on that front,' Natalia said. 'He's glared at us about three times now.'

'What else can you tell us?' Steve asked.

'They're Scandinavian,' Clint said. 'Couldn't say which country exactly, but they set up their bar here ten years ago, haven't moved since. They work hard when they're sober, play hard when they're drunk, and the barman keeps them all in line. There's a whole Scandinavian community living on these streets, and these guys are their protectors.'

A thunderous thumping came from the rooms above, knocking plaster dust from the ceiling. Clint hid his head in his hands.

'And that's their leader,' he said. 'Oh God, that's bad. The chief's on his way.'

There was a thump-thump-thump as someone made their way down the stairs. The lower steps creaked and Steve caught a glimpse of heavy leather boots before a silhouette blocked out the doorway, one arm reaching up so that it disappeared behind the lintel. A head of shaggy blonde hair leaned into the room and stared sidelong at the bar; the hair was shoulder-length and messy, and the beard was unkempt, giving an overall rakish charm to the face. He scowled the length of the bar and sighed.

'Father!' he cried. 'Beer!'

'Get it yourself, you damn layabout!' the barman bellowed. 'You work here too, you should-' from that point onwards the conversation devolved into frantic Scandinavian which none of the three could understand, peppered with seemingly random English words. The younger man encroached farther into the room as he yelled, while the barman gesticulated wildly. Finally an agreement seemed to be reached and the barman poured him a pint of golden beer. He took it and stared at it for a moment before tipping his head back and downing the lot, slamming the glass down onto the counter. The barman took it and refilled it – Sif tapped him on the shoulder and spoke to him in hushed tones, indicated the trio sitting at the table. He turned to them, eyes wide with fear but his mouth slack with confusion. Finally he seemed to find his resolve, and he strode over and sat heavily on the spare chair, his pint sloshing but not spilling.

'Morning,' he said, hiding behind his hair and staring into his beer so as not to stare through the windows at the afternoon sun. 'My name is Thor Odinson. I understand you are looking for my Warriors.'

'I hear you can help me with a job,' Steve said. 'My detective here speaks very highly of you and your group.'

'As well he should,' Thor added, 'after what he did last time.'

'We heard about that,' Steve said, colouring. 'He was an ass, I'm sorry.'

'You're not the one who needs to apologise,' the big man warned, staring at Clint. Clint stared back evenly. Eventually, however, his resolve broke; he looked away, and mumbled, 'I'm sorry I was an ass, okay? It was a stupid thing to do.'

Thor grinned and slapped him on the back with a shovel-like hand, causing him to lurch against the table.

'You are always welcome here, Barton!' he yelled, barking with laughter. 'Your antics make every night more interesting! Now,' he said, slamming his fist down on the table hard enough to make Natalia's half-full vodka splash and slosh all over the table, 'to business; what can I do for the big man in the New York Police Department?'

Steve took a deep breath and thought for some time. The Warriors were watching him with calculating eyes, it seemed that first impressions were an important thing in Asgard.

'I need a man found,' he said. 'Found and captured. For leverage. You've heard of Tony Stark?'

'The bomb maker,' Thor nodded, his eyes clouding over. 'Our community has not been free of the tyranny of his devices – partly my own fault,' he admitted, 'the mob don't take kindly to their boys being dunked in the river.'

'They don't take kindly to you having a mole in their midst either,' Steve said. 'Stark might have made those bombs, but now he's in the mob's hands and not likely to last long. I put him there, and that leaves me with two options: either I leave him to his fate and try to face the mob without my inside man; or I turn the tables, give them something to think about when it comes time to get him back.'

'So he's not dead?' Thor asked. Steve shook his head. 'Can I kill him?' the Scandinavian asked. To everyone's surprise, Clint burst out laughing.

'I do not jest,' Thor warned, but he caught Natalia's smile in the corner of his eye and turned back to Steve. The captain's eyes were furious and he was gripping the table with one hand hard enough to make the wood groan with the strain. In his other hand, the whiskey glass; he swirled it around, his eyes not paying attention to the dregs which circled the bottom.

' _Nice whiskey_ ,' he breathed. ' _Where'd you get it_?'

'I'm not laughing at you,' Clint said to Thor, grinning. 'I'm laughing because you're gonna get your ass kicked!'

'What I serve my customers is none of your-' Thor began, but that was when the table caught him in the chin. Steve lifted it clean into the air and threw it into the norseman, sending him sprawling on the floor. At once the Warriors were at his side, the sword dropping from the thin man's belt neatly onto the bar as he drew a dagger instead. The fat one's axe was gone too, replaced by a bottle.

Thor groaned. And then the groan turned into a rumbling great belly laugh, and he lay on the floor just laughing for several moments. When at last he sat up, his eyes were full of fight and he grinned savagely.

'You have some fight in you!' he roared. 'You will make a fine Warrior! We will go with you, if you will be with us for the battle!'

Steve stared in confusion, but he turned to Clint and Natalia. Clint was already nodding eagerly, the thought of some decent action stirring his bones; Natalia set her jaw and crossed her arms, but nodded reluctantly. Steve turned to Thor and offered his hand. Thor's grip was like iron, and he pulled himself up easily with Steve as a counterweight.

'I guess we're in,' Steve said.

'Who is the target?' Thor asked. Steve took a photo from his pocket and showed it to him.

'The man who did this,' he said. Thor stared grimly at the photo, which was mostly blood and some recognisable human parts, and nodded.

'I know the man,' he said. 'I have seen him occasionally. Do we know where?'

'We have an address,' Natalia said. 'We hope it's right.'

'Good enough,' Thor said. 'As soon as our final member joins us, we can go!'

'Final member?' Steve asked.

'The final member!' a voice announced, haughtily, from the shadows. 'There are always five Warriors!'

And suddenly the spotlights lit up the tiny stage in the corner, where a man in a suit rested on a barstool. He held a cane in one hand and under his hat beamed the slash of a sly grin. He tipped the hat up to reveal his emerald eyes.

'I am Loki!' he announced. 'Brother of Thor!'

 


	12. Burn it Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thrilling conclusion to the Tony-makes-bad-decisions story arc! We discover how Fisk got captured, why Tony was kidnapped, and just what Steve had in mind when he went to get Tony back.

**October 1921**

Steve's eyes never strayed from Stane – Clint was up above somewhere, his eyes on the whole scene, and Steve felt the tremor in his right hand at that thought. He fought to keep his voice level as he spoke.

'Wilson Fisk is in our custody,' he announced. 'He's somewhere safe, not in one of our holding cells where he could do some harm to somebody. You've got two choices, Stane: you let us take Stark, and Fisk goes free; or you can try and beat the information outta me, in which case I guarantee you'll lose Fisk, Stark, and the only man on this force who'd bother trying to take you alive.'

Stane almost smiled at that, and Steve wondered for a second if he'd said something wrong. But fury was taking the place of his worry – they'd kept Tony locked away for nearly a month! He saw the tape on Tony's wrists, played back the handover in his mind on repeat. Nearly a month! He looked thinner, paler, less sure of himself than the Tony Stark Steve knew, and Steve felt as though the ground would have to open up and swallow him before he would even think about giving him up! He stared at Stane with a cold fury and his jaw hardened.

'Why would you take me in alive, Captain?' Stane asked, a note of warning in his voice. 'If you are looking for answers, I assure you I am not the man you are after.'

'I know you are, Stane,' Steve said. 'You don't control a mob without knowing exactly what everyone's doing.'

'I'm not the only game in town,' Stane argued evenly. 'Now, I've given you Stark – tell me where Fisk is, or I'll-'

'You've got no leverage here,' Steve interrupted. 'We're leaving. You'll be notified of Fisk's whereabouts when we're long gone, am I clear?'

'Crystal,' Stane grunted, frowning. He sighed. 'Alright,' he said. 'You got your pet monkey back; now, why would you be the only one who'd take me in alive, Captain?'

'Because I'm the only one in the NYPD who still needs something from you,' Steve replied. 'But that can wait. I got what I came here for today.' He turned to go.

'Oh, but there's more, isn't there?' Stane called after him. 'See, I know exactly what you need. Captain Rogers, leading the Prohibition Squad on his bloody rampage for revenge. Nobody has died yet, Captain; if you stand down, nobody needs to!'

'You'll be the first, Stane,' Steve promised. 'I'll make sure of that.'

'And what about the others?' Stane roared, raising his gun. 'You kill me, will you kill whoever comes after? What if it's someone you trust? Can you really trust Stark after he's been with me all this time? Can you really trust him after he made the bomb _that killed your best friend_?'

To Steve's credit, he didn't rise to the questions. He stared straight ahead, at Tony's fretful expression; the magnate chewed his lower lip in worry, half in and half out of one of the cars.

'They'll come after us, you know,' he said as Steve closed in. Steve put a hand on Tony's shoulder and eased him into the car.

'They won't,' he said. 'We're too good for that.' He turned to the rest of his squad behind the barricade of cars. 'All of you, in!' he ordered. He went around the front of the car and got in the passenger seat.

'What about Clint?' Sam asked, starting the car.

'He'll make his own way back,' Steve said. 'We don't have the time to wait around for him, anyway.'

'Steve, he'll be killed by those gangsters!' Tony hissed. Steve turned to him, those blue eyes full of certainty once more.

'No he won't,' Steve said. 'He'll be fine, I know it.'

'How?' Tony asked sourly. Steve grinned and turned back to watch the road as they pulled away, ahead of Peggy's car.

'Because I told him not to die,' Steve said.

-

Fisk was always alone, but he was hardly ever in public. It was a double-edged sword; a very private life and a cloud of rumours which circled around him, but it meant isolation and a lack of connection. He sometimes worried about it, but usually he just beat up whoever Stane asked him to and collected his payment.

Today, that loneliness felt strange to him.

Here he was, facing his latest victim, and things felt off. He missed his wife, his home, he missed James Westley who always cared to ask him how things were. The man in front of him, well he didn't care one jot about James Westley. Or Fisk, for that matter.

'You think you're gonna kill me?' Vlad cried. 'You think I really betrayed you? I could never betray the mob, you know that!'

'I have heard otherwise,' Fisk said. 'Stane, Romanova, they believe you are a traitor. Who have you been selling our secrets to, Vlad?'

'The only secret I'd sell is yours, murderer!' Vlad spat. 'You killed my brother! I'll kill you!'

He drew a knife and lunged at Fisk, but the big man was faster. He dodged around the small Russian and gripped him in a bear hug. Something cracked and Vlad screamed.

The sound of tap-tap-tapping behind him confused Fisk. What was that? Some tap dancer practising their routine down here? If so, it was a very bad routine. So regular, so dull!

'Who is there?' Fisk grunted. Vlad gasped for air but found none.

'Are you Wilson Fisk?' a voice asked. It sounded very pleasant in the darkness.

'I am,' Fisk answered uncertainly. He turned and the image of a white stick resolved itself out of the darkness. Following it was a man who was almost as thin, and wore large round spectacles which covered his eyes with red lenses.

'Who are you?' Fisk asked. The man smiled.

'I am Matt Murdock,' he answered. 'I work for your legal team. We helped cover some property disputes on your behalf, thanks to a man named James Westley.'

'Oh yes,' Fisk said. 'I remember now.' He stared around cautiously. 'You're the blind one, right?' Murdock grimaced at the phrase, but nodded.

'That is correct,' he said. He dropped the stick, cocking his head to one side. 'Would you like to know what that's like?'

Fisk was taken aback for a moment. Was this a threat? If so, it was certainly coming from an unusual corner. Who did this man think he was?

'Are you... threatening me?' he asked, just to make sure. Murdock shook his head.

'No,' he said. 'I'm just asking if you'd like to know what it's like to be blind.'

'Not really,' Fisk answered. Matt smiled.

'Shame,' he said.

At that moment, the bag went over Fisk's head. Vlad dropped to the floor, contorted in agony, as four shadowy figures leapt on the big man and pulled him to the ground. In moments he was tied up and struggling against the ropes.

'Thank you, Mr Murdock,' Thor said to the lawyer. 'And to you too, Russian,' he added, turning to Vlad. 'I will see to it that you are well-rested and recovered – you did well to survive against him for so long!'

It was the work of a couple of minutes to drag Fisk to the warehouse's back entrance. Loki jimmied open the door and peered out. He started and shut it again, leaning against it heavily.

'There's some guards out there,' he said. 'We... don't want to alert them.' Thor snorted, but the steady tapping of Matt's cane caused them to turn.

'Can I help?' he asked.

-

**September 1921**

 

For Tony, it was business as usual. He was actually beginning to look forward to his covert time inside Stane's warehouses: a selection of fine booze, tinkering with cars, and _he was being paid for it_! Of course, after that he had to head to the NYPD garage and improve upon his own designs, and sometimes that felt impossible. But it was all about the little things: the camber of the wheels, the type of tyres, that little tweak to the carburettor that you didn't do in the Russians' engines...

Tony was so engrossed in his thoughts he almost missed Johnny Torrio standing in front of the cars. He wasn't difficult to miss, but he stood half in and half out of the shadow, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. He stood so stock still that for a moment Tony wondered if he hadn't fallen asleep on the spot.

It was only when he turned to leave that Torrio shifted and spoke.

'So you're the man who's been souping up my cars,' he said, his voice hoarse and sharp in the quiet air. Tony froze and turned back to face him.

'That would be me,' he admitted. He held out a hand. 'Tony Stark, CEO, Stark Enterprises. I own most of the papers in New York.' Torrio nodded in understanding.

'Ah, yeah, I read one or two of them,' he said. 'You're good with spin, Mr Stark – how would you feel if it became public knowledge that the bomb which killed Sergeant Barnes was one of yours, hm?'

Tony felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck and he fought to keep his composure. Johnny Torrio was playing with him now, he was on the other side of this cat-and-mouse game, a side he did not like to be on. He swallowed, and played it off with a laugh.

'I'm good, but I'm not that good!' he retorted. 'But there are good days and bad days for burying bad news. Knowing when to talk about it is half the battle.'

'That is true,' Torrio agreed. He took from his bag a bottle of fine brandy and popped the stopper. 'Would you take a drink with me, Mr Stark? This is fine stuff, better than the swill you'd find in the bars here.'

Stark agreed readily, the perspiration beading on his forehead. The tension felt diffused but Tony Stark was not ready to cash in on that bet. Torrio clicked his fingers; a silent mobster brought over a tray with two glasses and Torrio poured the brandy into each glass. Tony took one, but did not drink; instead he held the glass in his hand and watched as Torrio took a sip and savoured it.

'Ah! Finest brandy in New York! This is the only bottle of this stuff you'll find here, Mr Stark, from my own personal collection.'

Stark smiled, but it was tense and false. He raised his glass in silent cheers and took a sip; the brandy burned down his throat and he felt like gagging.

'How much do you know about Barnes?' he asked eventually, trying to pay no attention to Torrio's changing expression. 'I dug up all sorts of dirt on the man myself, he was well-connected in the gang circles – did he ever meet you?' Torrio's eyes were even and calculating, sizing up Stark's confident swagger.

'You ask dangerous questions, Mr Stark,' he replied, a note of warning in his voice. 'That your habit as a journalist?'

'You're meeting me in person, Mr Torrio,' Stark explained, feeling for all the world as though a hole had opened up beneath him and he was falling into it. 'That means you're either going to threaten me, or offer me a job yourself. I'm already working for Stane – is that not enough for you?'

Johnny stared at Tony, the knuckles on his hand that held the glass going white. Tony felt the heat of fear rising up his back; he took a swig of his own drink to steady himself and his mind raced over the possibilities: would Johnny offer him a job? Would he shoot him on the spot? Would his gangsters take him out back and beat the shit outta him? Would he just get a stern warning to get outta town before tomorrow, or they'd be after him?

Torrio's booming laughter scattered all thought from Tony's head. The mob boss had his hands on his stomach and tears were rolling down his cheeks with the effort, he was laughing so much.

'Mr Stark, you gotta stop taking everything so seriously!' he cried. 'You look like you just got caught committing a felony!' He slapped Tony on the back and led him past the cars and deeper into the garage.

'See, Stark,' Torrio explained, 'I think your talents are wasted on our cars. We got stills, we got guns, we got bombs of our own. And I know we've been taking our cut from you too, Tony, but we've got our own operations going on here, and we could really use your help in... improving them.'

'I see,' Tony said blankly. He found himself at a loss, clutching the brandy glass in his hand as he was steered towards the tiny offices at the back of the garage. He wracked his brains for any possible way out of this man's grasp but none was forthcoming.

Suddenly, Tony Stark wished very much that he had never got involved with the mob in the first place.

They stopped outside a metal door. It look heavy and imposing; Tony suspected that whatever was behind it was not going to be especially comfortable. He turned to make a move but he caught sight of the four other mobsters behind Torrio. They all cradled Tommy guns in their arms. They were all staring at him.

'This is how it works, Tony,' Torrio said. 'You sit in this box, and you let that big brain of yours come up with some useful ideas. Anything you like, as long as it's bombs or guns or alcohol. And in return, we let you live.'

The door was opened, and Tony pushed inside.

'Oh, and Ms Potts too,' Torrio added. 'Just so you don't get any ideas. Goodbye, Mr Stark.'

Those were the last words Tony heard before the door slammed.

-

**October 1921**

The address was a flat in Hell's Kitchen, near the mafia docks. Looking through the window, it was little more than a cramped room which one person could not so easily inhabit, let alone the two who were said to live there now.

Loki jimmied open the window easily and motioned to the others to slip inside. Thor went in first, followed by Sif and the other warriors before Loki closed up the window and crouched in the shadows, watching the street below. All was silent outside.

Inside, Thor was having a hard time keeping quiet.

'Quiet!' Sif hissed for a third time as he put his booted foot down heavily on a loose floorboard. He glowered at her.

'I am not built for quiet,' he said tersely. 'I am here to retrieve a bounty, not skulk around like some burglar looking for an easy steal!'

'Then let us look!' Sif protested. She motioned to Fandral, the blond man, and the two of them set off into the tiny apartment without waiting for Thor's approval.

'There's no one here!' Fandral said quickly. It did not take long to search the whole apartment. Thor roared and stamped, and Volstagg, the smaller of the warriors, shrank back from his rage.

'What are you doing?' Sif cried.

'There's no one here!' Thor shouted. 'So I can make as much noise as I please! We are here to catch the mob's most notorious killer and he is not even here! So where do you suggest we start looking!'

'How about we start by not waking up everybody in a five mile radius!' Sif retorted. 'Or are you insane as well as clumsy, you oaf?'

'Clumsy? Insane? You want to watch your tongue, Sif, or I'll cut it out of your-'

A knock at the window distracted them and they hit the floor. Silence reigned as they strained their ears to hear of any approach. All they heard was a rhythmic tapping outside the window.

Suddenly, Loki was speaking.

'What? Me?... He's gone where?... And how do we find that?... I see. Thank you!'

He opened the window and grinned at the others.

'Well,' he noted, 'you're all a rather sorry sight! I could have heard you from two streets away the whole time!'

'Listen, brother,' Thor began, but Loki interrupted him.

'You'll have to wait to finish your tirade,' he said. 'We have to find someone else before we can find Fisk. Thor, get on the phone to the precinct, I'll head into the docks to find our helpful ally in all this.'

'What's going on?' Thor asked.

'A very helpful passer-by told me Fisk was out this evening,' Loki explained. 'He says we can find him by enlisting the help of a Russian mobster, a higher-up named Vlad. And Vlad just so happens to be in service to Natalia Romanova, the young lady who met with you and arranged this meeting.'

'Natalia?' Thor's eyes widened. 'She's mafia?' Loki sighed.

'Clearly you have missed a lot, brother,' he said. 'Well I can't explain right now, but suffice to say she is to be trusted. Do you think you can handle your part in this?' Thor nodded reluctantly.

'What about us?' Sif asked. Loki thought for a moment.

'We need to do this quick and quiet. Thor, get another address from Natalia, will you? Somewhere discrete. We'll set up an ambush, I think.' Thor grinned.

'There is a reason we have you around us, brother,' he said, crawling through the open window.

'And here I thought it was for my delightful personality,' Loki sniffed.

The five of them landed lightly on the street and began heading towards the docks, when Thor caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

'Quick! Back!' he hissed, grabbing Loki before he could protest and dragging him into the shadow of the building.

Someone was walking down the street.

Thor watched them; they wore a threadbare suit and large round glasses, but the most prominent thing was the white stick they tapped about in front of them. Thor sighed impatiently.

'It's just a blind man,' he murmured. 'Alright everyone, behind me quietly.'

Loki struggled free of his brother's grip and huffed at him.

'You moron, it's totally fine!' he said. 'Hey Matt! Mr Murdock, over here!'

The blind man turned, the tinted glasses facing roughly in their direction. He tilted his head slightly, listening, and then his stick turned and he headed their way, across the road. He stopped when the stick collided with Thor's leg.

'You are the Warriors of Asgard?' he asked. Thor replied that they were, and he continued, 'I can't tell you where Fisk is – I was unable to follow him once the car picked him up down the street. I believe he has gone to talk to Ms Romanova? Anyway, she's going to set up Vlad to take the fall against Fisk; we're going to catch him in the act. There's a payphone just down the street.'

Loki kept watch as Thor spoke in hushed tones on the phone; he looked immensely uncomfortable using it. Matt sidled up to him.

'He, uh... he doesn't sound very confident,' he muttered in Loki's ear. Loki nodded.

'He's not,' he admitted. 'This modern technology confounds him! He likes to know who turns the wheels, and he can't with such things. A phone works by magic, for him.' Matt stared straight ahead for some time, deep in thought.

'What about you?' he asked eventually. 'You don't seem to be the type to hang back and watch. Why aren't you asking the questions?'

'In return, let me ask you a question of my own,' Loki said: 'how did you know where to find us? How do you know about Ms Romanova?'

'She got my number from a colleague, a detective who collected some information about Fisk last month. It appears we are about to close the net on him.'

'Why do you care?' Loki asked. 'Is Fisk some great enemy of yours too?' Matt shook his head.

'If anything, he employs me,' he explained. 'Fisk has employed my services as a lawyer on occasion, and that has opened up avenues of information to me. I have addresses, names, several people who should be seeing the inside of a jail cell but they aren't. And I... I have a lot of anger; this place should be beautiful, it should be happy. But the mob runs it, and blood stains these streets. I'm not happy here, and I want to be.'

'Very poetic,' Loki said. 'I must say, it... ah, it appears Thor is done.'

Loki took Matt's arm and brought him to the group, who were discussing a plan already.

'What if we just burst open the door and-'

'No, no, no! We need stealth; Fisk is a formidable-'

'Why don't we put on some fine suits, steal some Tommy guns and-'

'Enough!'

Everybody turned to Thor, who was facing Matt Murdock.

'Lawyer!' he snapped. 'Romanova said you knew the warehouse Fisk will use tonight – take us there!'

'Ah, let me see...' Matt wracked his brains and tapped his foot for a moment, and then it came to him. He gave them the address and Loki, whose sense of direction and knowledge of the city was perhaps the best, led them on towards the docks.

-

Pepper paced the room. Rhodey sat on his bed and stared at her; she was frantic and angry and working things out by throwing ideas at him and waiting for him to tell her how she was wrong.

'It's been weeks!' she cried, throwing her hands up in the air. 'He's missing, Steve has no leads and I'm stuck here! I've had enough!'

'Pepper,' Rhodey said, 'we can't just barge into every speakeasy in town and rough up the gangsters until they tell us something! We have to think about this more carefully-'

'We've thought about it!' Pepper shouted. ' _I've_ thought about it! And I'm done thinking now, Rhodes! Tony is missing and we've got to do something, because nobody knows where he is and it's been two weeks! He could be _dead_ , and I need to do something!'

'What do we do?' Rhodes protested, standing suddenly. 'We're outgunned here, Pepper! We have no information, no weapons, no leads! What are we going to do?'

Pepper stared at him, outraged but cowed. She nodded in understanding.

'I know,' she said. 'I know we have nothing here; but we have to _find_ something! If we do that, if we can get that one clue that falls into place, then-'

The phone rang. Pepper broke off and answered it.

'Is this Pepper Potts?' a woman asked on the other end of the line. Pepper opened her mouth to answer, but hesitated. She turned to Rhodes, and then turned back.

'She's not here right now,' she said, affecting a strong Brooklyn accent. There was an exasperated sigh from the other end.

'Are you sure?' the caller asked. 'I need to speak to her urgently; it's about Stark.'

Pepper had to fight to remain her composure.

'I'll pass you over to her friend,' she said, gesturing to Rhodes. 'He's with the NYPD, he'll be able to help.'

Rhodes took the phone and said, 'Rhodes, NYPD; what's up?'

'Rhodes? Janet said I could trust you; has the other woman left?'

Rhodes turned to Pepper curiously, and said, 'Yeah, she's gone. How can I help?'

'It's about Stark,' the woman said. 'I can't tell you where to find him, but I can give you some useful information; Steve's got a plan, and it's a good one.'

'What is it?' Rhodes asked.

She told him. Pepper watched as Rhodey's mouth went from shock, to deliberation, to an enormous grin.

'And they've found him?' he asked. 'That's great! Where? Thank you!' He put the phone down and turned to Pepper.

'We've got a lead,' he said. 'It won't take you to Stark directly, but it's going to help nonetheless. Come on.'

'Where are we going?' Pepper asked as she pulled on her coat.

'We're heading to Hell's Kitchen. There's some guys there who need our help.'

-

Matt made his case to the Warriors.

'I'm just the blind guy!' he said. 'I don't see anything; I go out there and they think I've just made a wrong turn, got lost or something! That's when I get them!'

'This is the bit we have a problem with,' Loki said hesitantly. 'See, you're not the strongest of-'

'You're ninety pounds soaking wet and you don't look like you can fight to save your life,' Thor said tersely. 'We have to find another way out.'

'He's going to break out of these ropes if we don't do something!' insisted Fandral. 'Perhaps we should-'

'Hang on!' Loki hissed. 'I hear something!'

The mobsters were just outside the door, and they were talking to someone. Loki strained his ears to hear them.

'-don't belong to you, pal! Take your girl and go home!' Was someone else there?

'We don't care, buddy! Romantic spot or not, this is our dock! You can't-'

There was a strangled cry and the sounds of a struggle, and then silence. Loki stepped away from the door, a knife appearing in his hand.

'Be ready, everyone!' he warned. 'This could get ugly.'

They raised their weapons. The door was flung open.

'Oh! Hello Matt!'

As one, the Warriors turned to stare at Matt. Then their gaze returned to the woman in the doorway. Matt waved awkwardly.

'Hi, Pepper,' he said. 'How are things?'

-

'Ironically, Stane recommended him.'

They had returned to Asgard, and Pepper wasn't going to say no to a towering mug of mead while she explained how she knew Matt and, more importantly, how she and Rhodey had found out where they were.

They had gone over the details in brief: Clint had found the address, and America Chavez had called the hotel they were staying at to let them know what was going on. Thor, Matt, Fandral and Volstagg listened intently as Pepper explained the deception.

'Big hats and a handbag big enough to conceal a pipe wrench,' she said concisely. 'It was just a matter of getting close enough, and I've played the young star-struck date to enough of Tony's parties to do it again! Rhodey was a little rusty,' she added, seeing his expression deflate slightly, 'but he played his part well enough.'

'After that,' Rhodey interrupted, 'it was a matter of shaking up one of the guys badly enough. We warned him: Tony doesn't come back, we know exactly where to go for the rest of the mob. Now we've just gotta wait and see what they do.'

Loki and Sif leaned against the bar, watching the crowd with interest. Sif took a swig of her drink and leaned in to talk to Loki.

'You took something from the house,' she said. 'I don't know how, but you did.'

'It was on the table by the window,' he admitted quietly. 'I thought the others shouldn't see it.'

'Do you want to tell me what that is?' Sif asked. Loki sighed and took a picture frame from the inside of his jacket. It was small, but Sif could see the picture clear as day. She stared at it in shock, and then glared at Loki.

'She was in here!' she hissed. 'She was with Rogers! Do you think that picture means anything?'

'I think it means a lot,' Loki replied calmly. 'For a start, I'm sure you didn't happen to notice the wedding ring Fisk wears proudly on his hand.'

Sif gasped.

'You don't think-'

'I do,' Loki said. 'But keep it quiet for now. No one has to know until I'm absolutely certain.'

Sif nodded.

'Now go,' he said. 'Join in the fun. You'll look suspicious otherwise.'

Sif nodded and suddenly she was all smiles and triumph.

When everyone was settled again, Loki slipped out of the bar. They didn't need to know about this.

-

The mobster cowered in front of Torrio. He was on his knees, a gun pointed at his temple.

'Tell me again,' Torrio said coldly, 'what this black guy said to you.'

'He... he said go straight to you,' the mobster whimpered. 'Tell you that if you don't release Stark, he's gonna go to every mob bar he knows and burn it down. And then he's gonna do the same to the stills, the garages, everything!'

'He can't have all that information!' Torrio snapped. 'There's not many people who know all that! Did he prove it?'

'He gave me addresses,' the mobster quavered. 'A dozen of them if not more. Speakeasies, warehouses, stills, even a couple of home addresses! He told me, if Stark isn't released by the end of the month, he's gonna start by taking out Stane's favourite bar. And Stane with it!'

Torrio grimaced. He put the gun away and paced up and down the garage. Finally, he made a decision.

'It's very important,' he insisted, 'that Stane not hear anything about this. Tell him I've had a better idea; Stark's not giving us anything anyway, so we might as well ransom him back to the cops! Tell him to make the call tomorrow, I'll give him a time and place.'

The mobster nodded, happy to be alive, and left. Torrio hurried to his office.

'Sir?'

Right, right. The kids were still here. Wanda and Pietro. He turned to them.

'Change of plans, kids,' he said. 'I'm leaving tonight. Taking the next train back to Chicago; things have taken a turn here, and I don't like it.'

'What do we do?' Wanda asked. 'What's going on?'

'The important thing to note,' Torrio said, 'is that you two are the only ones I can trust right now. If you believe – if you even _suspect_ – that Stane or Romanova aren't pulling their weight, doing their bit, you call me. Tell me about it; I'll tell you what to do. From now on, you two are in charge. Off the record, see? Now, I have to tell Stane we can't keep Stark any longer. He's become more of a liability than an asset.'

He picked up his suitcase and left the office. Wanda smiled as she watched him retreat.

'What does this mean?' Pietro asked her, his eyes not leaving the mob boss.

'It means,' Wanda said, 'that we are in control of this operation from now on.'

-

Not that there was much of an operation left by the end of the month. As soon as the mob gathering was out of sight, Steve ordered Sam to stop the car.

'What's going on?' Tony asked. Steve turned to him.

'I'm sorry I didn't trust you,' he said. 'But I'm ready to now. All I need is an address.'

Tony stared at him, confused for a moment. Then, realisation dawned, and he nodded.

'You got it, chief!' He grinned and rattled off the address. Steve wrote it down and headed to a payphone nearby.

'Hi, Pepper?' he said. 'Yeah, I have an address for you; do you think you could check it out?'

He gave her the address. Tony stared in shock.

'You're bringing me back and putting Pepper in the middle of it all?' he cried in outrage. Steve held up his hands.

'She's only on the phone for us,' he said. 'The commissioner is doing all the work for this one, I promise. Come on, we'll take you back to the precinct; you can see for yourself.'

The ride back was fraught, for Tony. He wondered what Pepper would say, whether she'd be angry or scared or just flat-out refuse to see him. He'd never messed up this badly before. Well, once; but that had never placed them both in mortal danger. In his head he went over a list of fuck-ups that this little operation of his had caused: let's see, he'd got Pepper removed from her home, then he'd got it firebombed; he'd risked the wrath of the entire mob; he'd got himself imprisoned for a month or so as an ideas-monkey for said mob; he'd given the war on alcohol new weapons of mass destruction on both sides, now that their cars were so tricked out they could reach speeds double or even triple that of a normal car.

His head was so spinning with worry that he barely noticed they'd stopped. But when they stepped out, and Steve placed the blanket around his shoulders and led him into the precinct he started feeling more himself.

And when they reached the office and Pepper was standing there, tear marks on her cheeks and a smile of relief on her face, and her arms wrapped around his neck tight, he felt better than ever. He smiled as he sat against the desk and hugged her back, and then his eyes turned to Steve and he saw the smile on his face too, and then his smile broke into steely resolve. Everyone gathered around him, ready to ask him questions, but he silenced them.

'I wanna say something first,' he said. 'First of all, to Captain Rogers: I'm sorry. This whole mess is my fault, and I'm going to help you guys deal with it. I can make the cars even better, I can tell you about their drivers and their routes and all sorts of things, and I'm gonna join the fight properly; Steve, I wanna be with you on the front line. They have to know they've not beaten me.'

Every stared in shock. Steve was silent for a moment, and then he spoke.

'I appreciate the sentiment, Tony,' he said, 'but I can't do that. I need you back in place, in your papers and your factories. Your job now is far more important; we've taken a huge step towards taking down the mob, and we're taking out a huge base of operations as we speak. But now the real work begins: we have to mop up what's left, and I have a feeling that's gonna include Stane. And possible even Fisk.'

'The Warriors are people of their word,' Sam said. 'They're gonna let him go. They might not like it, but it's going to happen.'

'The whole mob operation is going to change,' Rhodes said.

'That's right,' Steve agreed. 'That's why we need you back in business, Tony. You've gotta be public, you've gotta be out there. If the people can see you, the mob can't kill you. And I need you, alive.'

Tony stared at Steve, and nodded.

'Alright Captain,' he said. 'We'll do it your way this time. No more mob ties, no more sneaking around. We're out in the open, we're honest and public about it, and we take them out hard and fast.'

'Sounds like a plan,' Steve said. 'Let's get started.'

-

Stane stared in disbelief as the car rolled past. He contained his emotions as best he could, but there were some things you could not forgive.

'My garage,' he murmured. 'Alight. They destroyed it, destroyed everything.'

'They caught up to your operation,' Natalia said simply. 'Now, we rebuild; we start again, from scratch. This time, without Stark.'

'We still have three of his cars,' Stane said. 'Do you think Ivan can work with that?'

'Ivan has worked with less. This will be like a paradise to him.' Stane nodded grimly.

'Good,' he said. 'I want Fisk picked up as soon as we know his whereabouts. We'll head to the docks, stop somewhere discreet. Then we can regroup and make plans.'

Even from this distance, the garage fire was highly visible. Wanda and Pietro approached the two of them on the docks and stared at it sourly.

'They say an oil patch must have caught,' Wanda said. 'That, plus all the alcohol fumes in the air... big fire. The cops were lucky to get out alive.'

'No,' Stane said. 'This was planned. I recognise the handiwork, too; Someone was hired out against us, and we're going to find them.'

He turned to Wanda, Pietro and Natalia.

'New plan,' he announced. 'We keep everything moving. I have the funds to requisition a cargo ship – our cars are going to stay on that. All alcohol is going to be loaded onto it. It's a big target, but it'll be kept away from the prohibition squad. We keep our operations discreet, we tighten the circle. We're going to have to let a lot of good people go, but I'm trusting you to know who's valuable. Was Driver Thirteen safe?'

'On board one of my yachts,' Natalia said. 'With Drago. He's ready for action.'

'Good,' Stane said. 'Then we have our drivers. Driver Thirteen and Pietro, and maybe three or four more. I don't want too many cars, we're shrinking our operation. I'll leave the details to you Russians.'

'What about Rogers?' Wanda asked. 'Fewer cars, easier catch for him.'

'Faster cars, thanks to Drago,' Natalia reasoned. 'Maybe even faster than Stark's.'

'Precisely,' Stane said. 'And if they're not... well, impress upon Drago just how important it is that they _are_ faster, understand?'

Wanda took a step closer to Stane.

'Are you threatening our operation?' she asked. Stane turned to her, eyes full of fury.

'Yes,' he said sternly. 'Yeah, I'm threatening your operation! Because your operation just blew up alongside mine! So here's how this works now: if anyone doesn't pull their weight, or blabs to the cops, or tries to weasel more out of us, we cut them loose, and cut them down! Am I clear?'

Wanda had gone pale. Pietro was at her side, shaking with rage, one hand on her shoulder. Even Natalia looked surprised, she had backed off a couple of steps.

'Understood,' Wanda said eventually.

'Good,' Stane growled. 'Then you understand that the nature of this partnership has now changed? No longer do I bow to your demands, no longer do I take suggestions. We do this my way, or you burn. Does that make sense?'

A chorus of nods, fear keeping mouths shut. Stane continued.

'Good. Our first order of business then: taking Tony Stark out of the picture, permanently.'

 


End file.
